Never Send a Man: A Collection of Short Stories
by fictiondude87
Summary: James Bond is back and he's better than ever in these five all-new 007 adventures! From New York City to Paris, James Bond has never been better! New stories coming soon! Please R&R!
1. Introduction

Welcome to my short story collection, Never Send a Man.  Eventually, this collection will contain five short stories all including the legendary secret agent James Bond 007.  For a summary of each story, please look below.  Currently, only two stories are available.  The others will be coming soon.  Please R&R!!

Never Send a Man 

James Bond travels to New York City, where he is helped by a vengeful FBI agent named Vicki Vale to take down an international drug dealer named Alexander Dramond.

The Eternal Flame 

James Bond defies the orders of the Minister of Defense and goes on a mission to eliminate an information broker named MAX.  Aiding Bond is another criminal named Pierre Aubergine and a beautiful French agent named Charlize Veraut.  But is everything as it appears to be? 


	2. Never Send a Man

The yellow taxi cab slowed and turned off the main street, pulling up to the curb.  It was rush hour, and the commonly crowded streets of New York City were even more swamped than usual.  There was honking of horns, screeching of tires, and use of vulgarity.  

James Bond waited on the curb as the taxi pulled up to him.  He wasn't use to this kind of traffic.  Sure, there were crowded streets in London.  But nobody used vulgar language.  There was an occasional honking of the horn.  And some screeching of tires.  But nothing like this.

Besides, Bond hated New York.  It and cities like it, like Los Angeles, Detroit, and Washington, D.C., had an industrial smell they wore like a cheap perfume.  Bond preferred American cities like Houston, Raleigh, and Miami, which, unlike their sibling big cities, had a relaxed, easy-going atmosphere.

Bond remembered the first time he'd been here, when he was younger, working on an SIS case.  He'd promised to meet a British woman agent who didn't know she was dating a KGB spy.  But she herself was a double agent, working for both sides.  It was a mission Bond had long wanted to forget.

As his flagged taxi came to a halt, he took a quick evaluation of his belongings.  He carried only a brown leather briefcase, a present from Q Branch before his departure from London, and a black duffel bag.  The briefcase contained an advanced security system, an x-ray proof hidden compartment with an AR-7 folding sniper's rifle, and a concealed throwing knife contained on the side.

Being a chilly day in early March, he was dressed in a russet suit, light blue button-up shirt, and a pair of brown leather Oxfords.  Over which he draped a light brown trench coat he had purchased in London a few weeks before.  Underneath everything, though, he wore his chamois shoulder holster that contained his trademark Walther PPK.

His hair was combed back finely, with the tiny comma of black hair dangling precariously just above his left eye.

He climbed into the back seat and told his driver to head for Times Square.  He needed to be at the Crowne Plaza Times Square hotel in ten minutes for a two o'clock check-in.  The driver, who appeared to be from Eastern Europe, nodded and pulled back into the mainstream traffic.

It took them eight minutes to cross two blocks to Times Square.  James Bond thanked the driver, handed him a few loose American bills, and exited the cab.  He headed into the hotel and walked up to the front desk.

Had it really been less than a week since he had stood at the entrance to that ungodly building in Regent's Park, the skies dark and gray with the onset of a London summer?  A week since he looked into the singularly clear grays of M, his chief at SIS?  Since the thin dossier marked FOR YOUR EYES ONLY slid across the glass-topped desk straight into his fingers?  Yes, indeed it had.

Bond had been aroused early that Sunday morning by the incessant buzz of a telephone.  But it wasn't his public line.  No, the noise was coming from the red telephone, the government-issue article he was directed to keep in his home.  He reached over to his nightstand and grabbed the receiver.

It was Bill Tanner, M's chief of staff.  The old woman wanted Bond there by eight.  What it was about, he didn't know, just be there on time, Bill had said.  Bond groaned, then thanked Tanner and rung off.

_What is it that she wants?_, Bond had wondered afterwards.  _A new case?_  There had been mountainous amounts of paperwork collecting on his desk in the days and weeks before.  He hadn't been out of England for a good six months, though he would be glad to be shipped off to the Bahamas or Jamaica or somewhere tropical where he could relax.  No doubt, though, that the mission she had prepared for him would take him somewhere dismal and boring.  But it would get him out of London and away from the paperwork nonetheless, so Bond was glad.

Bond was there by eight, with the thick London fog encircling the stoic headquarters building.  He was ushered into the office and took a seat across from what appeared to be an excited M.

"We've got clearance," she said.  "From CIA.  Just received it last night."

Bond was confused.  "Clearance for what?"

M leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs, and whipped out a thick dossier.  "I'm sure you're familiar with Alexander Dramond, 007?"

Bond nodded.  Alexander Dramond was the most famous drug dealer in the world, at least to all government agencies concerned with him.  He had been the primary dealer of opium and heroin in the North and South Americas, Europe, and Asia, for the past five years.  He had first been noticed as a top lieutenant in a European drug ring.  However, Dramond had quickly usurped the top position within the group, and had turned the little-known drug ring to a chain of great influence and power.

"Of course," Bond replied.  "Dramond has been a problem for years now."

M was obviously pleased, and her face showed it.  "Yes, and a problem that had always been out of our reach.  Until now."  She tossed a dossier over to Bond, and it fell into his lap.  "That tells all about Dramond, and all his known warehouses," she explained.  "Wired over fresh from the Americans last night.  They've given us clearance to take over the Dramond case.  Ministry of Health and International Opium Control people in Geneva want us over there right now.  The American FBI has several agents working on his case as well, and they want to meet up with you.  Your cover and arrangements for a meeting are all in there."  She motioned to the folder.  "Their agent is in New York right now, as is Dramond.  They're staying at the Crowne Plaza in Times Square.  Your room's already been booked.

"Dramond's been the top supplier of opium and heroin for the past five years.  The worst thing, though, is that he doesn't sell it in large quantities to private clients.  He's pushing it on the streets, 007.  To our children.  On the streets, in the schools, at the malls, everywhere.  Ministry of Health's been noticing it with our kids too.  Used to be only the Americans.  Not anymore.  This guy's pushing drugs on our kids and he'll keep pushing them until we take him out."

Bond lifted an eyebrow at this.  Had she said, 'until we take him out?'  An assignment to _kill_?  There hadn't been a direct order to kill for a long time, what with government bans and sanctions.  He liked the sound of this.

"Luckily, these chaps from the FBI and CIA have ferreted Dramond out of his hole.  For some stupid reason he seems to keep a stringent schedule, going to the same places at the same time every day.  Which gives us the advantage.

"Now, we're sending you to New York City, 007.  The FBI agent will brief you on the day's schedule, and a list of all the equipment.  I've been assured by Washington that this agent is one of the best."  Bond noticed a slight grin on M's face when she said that.  "Any more questions?  No?  Good.  Well, good luck 007.  Oh, and Major Boothroyd wants to see you downstairs before you go.  Read the dossier too.  His entire profile's in there."

With that, Bond left the room and headed downstairs.  Major Boothroyd had given him the briefcase, and thirty minutes later he was packed and at Heathrow, on his way to the States.  His flight landed at JFK International and he proceeded directly into the city.  His reservation at the Crowne Plaza had a check-in time of two o'clock, and his meeting with the FBI agent had been arranged at the hotel's lounge at two-thirty.  Which is why Bond was in a great hurry to get to the hotel, check-in, and get unpacked.

The receptionist at the front desk was pleasant, and made his registration quick and easy.  She was an attractive young girl with curly brown hair and an agreeable smile.  She handed him his key.  "Thank you," she said.  "Enjoy your stay."

Bond's room was number 340 on the seventh floor.  The front room was fashioned with a couch; two armchairs; fine Persian rugs; two lamps; a coffee table covered in a plethora of the world's newspapers; a large double-doored stand which opened to reveal a TV; a minibar; and a table for flowers by the door.  French glass doors opened onto the veranda with a commanding view of the cityscape.

The second room was the bedroom.  It was fashioned with a cushiony king-sized bed with warm sheets, another armchair, a nightstand, another TV, a small chest of drawers, and a spacious walk-in closet.  A door opened into the bathroom, which contained a marble sink, commode, and a bath with frosted glass panels that turned it into a shower.

Bond had a porter bring his bags to the room, tipped him, then gave him an extra twenty to keep fresh flowers in every morning.  For the mission, Bond had been given an envelope of hundreds and fifties confiscated from a known Dramond fund.  Given by the FBI to SIS for their agent's funds, Bond had been informed that it would be considered _very_ rude if he didn't spend it all.

Bond unpacked, then took a shower, once with streaming jets of hot water, and then again with a freezing stream.  Then he dried off; dressed in a tan suit, navy button-up, and brown Oxfords.  Then he adjusted his chamois Berns Martin shoulder holster, checked the magazine in his Walther PPK, and then slid the weapon into the holster.  He slapped on his gold Rolex, checked the time, and saw that he had less than five minutes until his meeting downstairs.

The lounge in the Crowne Plaza was a posh bar and restaurant that gave an imposing view of the city streets.  In the center was a floor-to-ceiling tank that contained specimens of fish from all different parts of the world.  Bond was especially interested in the Jamaican tiger fish that darted between the whipping strands of algae, pursuing the smaller guppy that was seeking shelter under the cleft of a jutting rock.

The fight between the two fish seemed pending, and Bond was excited by the action.  He desperately wanted to stay and watch, but he had a duty to fulfill.  Perhaps their table would be near the tank.

He spotted a tall gentleman seated at a table in the corner.  Was this the agent?  He had been given no photos to judge the agent by.  Just the password, which had been agreed upon by both SIS and the FBI.  Bond moved in.

Just then, a lovely young girl with jet-black hair breezed past, slightly touching Bond's elbow.  It was enough to make him turn after her, and he found he was staring straight into two deep pools of warm green.  He suddenly realized how attractive she was.

But it was enough for her.  "Oh, excuse me, do you have a light?"  She pulled a packet of Marlboros from her pocket and slid one from the box.

The beginning of the password.  Was it a coincidence?  Surely M would've told him if his contact was to be a female agent.  He had to find out.

"I use a Ronson myself," Bond finished the password.  Reaching inside his jacket, he retrieved a gunmetal cigarette case and a silver lighter.  He handed the lighter to the girl, and she lit the cigarette.  Then he noticed the bands at the mouth of the filter: two gold bands, a specialty cigarette.  The final part of the password.

"James Bond?" the girl asked in a low tone after taking a long puff.

Agent 007 nodded.  "And you are...?" Bond replied.

"Vicki Vale.  Pleased to meet you."

She was quite beautiful.  Her silky black hair streamed down onto her shoulders.  Her slender, healthily pale face was smiling back at Bond.  Her green eyes were the same distance apart, separated by her exceptionally small nose.  As she smoked, her nostrils flared, which Bond found somehow attractive on her.  Her mouth, from which the cigarette hung, was petite and much too small for Bond's tastes.  Her body, on the other hand, was slender and petite—and appealed very much to Bond.  She had sacrificed her hourglass figure for a more muscular, fit tone, which was just as alluring to Bond.  She was clothed in a black pants suit, white blouse, and five-inch Stilettos.  There was no scent of perfume, and Bond assumed that the woman was more comfortable wearing the 'strong female' aura that surrounded her.  Around her wrist she wore a silver watch.  Bond noticed there was no ring on the fourth finger of her left hand.

"Pleased to meet you as well.  Shall we?"  Bond motioned to one of the tables, then escorted her there.  They found menus already sitting there.  A waiter arrived a few seconds later, welcomed them, and asked if they would like anything to drink.

"I'd like a dry vodka martini, shaken not stirred," Bond ordered customarily.

"White wine spritzer," Vicki said simply, then handed her menu to the waiter.  Bond followed suit, and the waiter said he'd be back in a few minutes with their drinks.

"Boy," Vicki said after he'd left.  "You sure are meticulous."

My, she was forward, thought Bond.  Actually, it was quite refreshing to see somebody who was that self-assured.  But Bond remained cool and calm.

"I don't think so.  It's just the way I am.  Kinda like the way you like to twist the ends of your hair."  Bond smiled assuredly as the girl looked back mystified.

"You twist your hair.  The ends are split, the way they get when somebody twirls them all the time."  She touched the ends, twirling them slightly.  Then she blushed.

"You're good, Mr. Bond," Vicki admitted.

The waiter returned with their drinks.  "So," Bond said once he had left.  "What do you have for me?"

The girl grinned as she sipped her drink.  "Good news, actually," she replied.  "There's a club Dramond frequents, Six Feet Under, in Harlem.  They're quite respected, as far as clubs go.  Anyway, Dramond's got a known Manhattan dealer meeting him there tonight.  The Director says we've got reservations there tonight.  Under the name McMillan.  You're McMillan, and I'm your mistress.  We probably won't have to use them, but just in case they've been arranged.  Have you had a chance to read Dramond's dossier?"

Bond shook his head.  Vicki sure was a take-charge kind of person.  Probably used to being in charge.  M had said she was one of the best agents within the FBI.  Bond was interested in working with her, but he wasn't going to let her take over.  That wasn't her place.

"No," Bond said, finishing off his drink.  "I haven't."

"Well you ought to," Vicki said matter-of-factly.  "There's plenty of good stuff there.  You'll need to know it for tonight.  We're meeting here at nine.  I've arranged for a rental car.  The place is in a dark area, and the streets are kinda confusing, so you may want to take a little time to drive around.  Check out the surroundings.  Get a feel for them.  We're going to be out late, so you might want to get some rest too."  She looked him over, then added, "And get some new clothes.  Nobody goes to a club dressed like that."  She motioned distastefully at his suit.

"That all, mother?" Bond asked sarcastically.

She didn't think it was very funny.

"Just be ready.  Nine.  Right here."  She got up, and headed for the door.  "Oh, and I trust you're getting my tab.  Thanks."  With that, she left.

As the waiter brought the check, Bond groaned.  Who did this woman think she was?  The CIA handed this mission over to Bond.  Hadn't the FBI?  He needed to call M.  But only after he got some suitable clothes.  Macy's was just down the street.  He'd pick out a few things and be ready by five.  Maybe time for a short nap after calling M.  He supposed it would take him about an hour or so to get ready.  He'd have to take a short drive over to the club and check the place out.  He needed to be prepared.  This guy Dramond was tough, and they'd only get one shot at him.  Bond's mind wondered, and he mused about the kind of security Dramond had.

Of course the man had bodyguards.  Probably two or three close guys with guns and huge muscles.  Wearing suits and ties.  They were easy to spot.

But was there anybody else?  Snipers?  Probably.  Watchers, across the street in big cars with small-caliber guns ready to blow a hole in an attackers head?  Maybe.  Would anything be rigged, like explosives or poisons inside the club itself?  Most likely not.  But Dramond did frequent the place quite often.  What arrangements had he made with proprietors?  Or was he himself the proprietor, the title hidden under a set of misleading covers and disguises?

Bond's musings were ended by the waiter, who suddenly asked him if he'd like something else.  Considering the fact that he hadn't eaten for several hours, he quickly ordered a char-grilled hamburger, French fries, a garden salad with Thousand Island dressing, and a glass of soda pop.  Classic American lunch.  The waiter hurried off to get his meal.

Bond sat back and wondered.  Where was Dramond now?  Pushing heroin out on the streets?  Selling opium to gang-bangers?  Teenagers were being attacked by the drug smugglers; the dope sellers that were just in it for the money.  What did they care that their drugs killed?  What did they care about the families that were torn apart, the lives that were ruined?

Bond finished his lunch and returned to his room.  He checked everything, grabbed his briefcase and jacket, and headed off.  He flagged down a taxi and took it one block north to Macy's.  He paid the driver and hurried inside.

He made his way to menswear, where a friendly blonde attendant helped him pick out two Polo shirts, one red and one forest green, a pair of tan khakis pants, a light blue button-up, a comfortable navy fleece sweater, a new pair of brown socks, and a shiny set of black Oxfords.

As he left the store, thanking the attendant and purchasing his merchandise, he thought about the evening ahead.  He'd wear the sweater on top of the button-up, and the tan khakis.  His PPK wouldn't be accessible under the sweater with his current holster; he was lucky he'd brought along the waist holster.  The compact plastic rig would be easily hidden underneath the sweater while Bond was seated.  If he kept his jacket on until he was at the table, nobody would ever notice the hidden weapon.  Lucky for him.

These thoughts passed through his mind as he retired to his hotel room.  It was just past five, which gave Bond just under four hours to scope out the place and get ready for the evening.  But first he had to call M.

He dialed the proper numbers, spoke to the right people, and was connected to M's office.  She answered with exhaustion.

"Hello?"

"007 here," Bond said.

"Ah," M said.  "007.  How are things?"

"Fine, ma'am.  I was just wondering about this girl from the FBI."

He could almost hear M smile over the line.  Of course!  The _girl_!  She wondered how they were getting along and silently laughing because she had tricked him into a mission with a woman agent.  "Ah, yes, Miss Vale.  What about her?"

"I was just wondering if she was completely reliable.  I mean, what do we know about her?"

Oh, Bond knew M was thinking, now he's trying to get her taken off of the mission.  Why was he such a chauvinist?  Couldn't he even work with a woman?  "She's top of the line, 007.  The _crème-de-la-crème_.  I've had everything confirmed with Washington.  She's completely reliable.  She'll be an important asset."  There was a pause as she let her words sink in.  "Anything else, Commander?"

Bond frowned.  No such luck.  "No, ma'am.  That's everything.  Thanks."  She thanked Bond, and then he rang off.  Five-thirty.  He'd better be getting downstairs.

Bond took a cab north to Harlem.  Luckily, the driver was local and knew exactly where the Six Feet Under club was, though he insisted the place didn't open until after eight.  Bond persisted, however, and the driver reluctantly agreed to take him there.

The club entrance itself was quite small.  The building that contained the club wasn't large, so Bond thought it would be quite easy enough to keep an eye on.  When he was satisfied with the place itself, Bond decided to take a quick trip across the street.

The building directly across from the nightclub was a run-down hotel with three floors.  The rooms were old and dilapidated, and the owner looked even worse.  Bond spent a few bucks and rented a room overlooking the street, straight across from the entrance to the club.

His room was small and quiet.  The creaky bed sat in one corner, and a dresser missing a drawer sat against the far wall, right beside the dark, malodorous bathroom that Bond refused to enter.  A chair and lamp by the window served Bond's purpose well.

The agent opened his briefcase, pulled off the fake top, and pulled the folding sniper's rifle from the secret compartment.  He used the scope, concealed in the hollow butt with the rest of the rifle's components, to range the interval between the two buildings.

Bond saw the front entrance of the club—a set of heavy double-doors that would be guarded by some kind of bouncer.  Places like the Six Feet Under club always made sure their patrons were well respected.  Not just anybody was allowed in.  Bond guessed that Dramond and his crew would use this front entrance only if they wanted to make broad public appearances.  Rear exits would be used for fast getaways, the kind they would make if threatened inside the club.  He wondered if the FBI had a layout of the facility, its access points, and countermeasures to keep them closed.  Dramond most likely had some sort of agreement with the management for quick access or escape.

The side exit was the one that would most likely be used in the event of an attack.  Along 5th Street, the exit would be the one most easily reached due to its proximity to the street.  A car could easily be parked nearby to aid in a quick getaway.  There was a blind spot, especially if Bond had to shoot from there, but he would have just the slightest chance for a shot before Dramond would climb into the car.

Moving the chair over to the bed, Bond flicked on the light and spread the components of his rifle across the bedspread.  He slowly, meticulously, put the weapon together, taking painstaking precision to assemble the rifle.  When he was done, he checked the automatic weapon, slid on the sight, and moved the chair back over to the window.

He sat so that the end of the weapon was just within the window's frame and wouldn't be noticed by anyone on the ground.  He slid the scope's magnification to the 3x mark, and he could make out the minute details of the club door's knob.  Perfect.  As he put the weapon down, he imagined the shot.  He could almost see it, the dark bullet racing from the barrel with a loud crack.  It would pierce the skin, causing it to pucker, then pop back out, leaving a small hole and a ring of pink bruises.  Then the bullet would continue on its way, carving through arteries and veins on its way to the red pulsing organ known as the heart.

Bond hated killing.  Cold-blooded murder was a filthy business.  He only killed when he had to, and only because his government had authorized him to.  When he killed it was on the order of Her Majesty's Secret Service.  Only when he had to.

But for some reason Bond was having a problem with this assignment.  Why was he killing this man?  Sure, Bond knew the facts.  This man was the biggest dealer of opium and heroin in the United States.  He sold these drugs to children, didn't care that they died, blah blah blah.  Yes, indeed, Bond knew the facts.

But what had this man ever done to him?

Had Alexander Dramond ever done anything to James Bond?  Of course not.  The Americans had handled his case for five years.  He'd never been in contact with the man.  So why was he going to kill him?

Needless to say Bond knew the answer.  It was his job.  He would come here tonight, watch Dramond make the deal, then leave the club, cross the street, pull out the gun, and kill Dramond.  A quick job.  Clean, effortless.  The FBI and the NYPD would handle the media and the public.  This wasn't a crowded place, and very few would hear the gun go off.  Most people living in this part of town were used to hearing gunshots at night.  He was covered.

Bond shook his head, and forgot his misgivings.  There wasn't time for this.  It was seven now.  He had two hours.  He would have just enough time to clean up here and get to the hotel.  The large autumn sun was just beginning to drop behind the skyline.  It would be dark before Bond knew it.

Time to get back to the hotel.  Vicki would be waiting for him.  He had an hour to shower and dress in his new clothes.

Bond closed the briefcase, but left the rifle out.  He put the rifle underneath the bed sheets, dissembling the components one by one.  As he did, he wondered about who might be accompanying Dramond this evening.  There would be bodyguards, Bond was sure.  Luckily for him, his rifle was of a boltless model that had been designed by Q himself several years back.  It provided several shots in rapid succession.  The ten-round clip was loaded into the cavity in front of the trigger, and delivered semi-automatic precision with the power of a full-blown sniper's rifle.

Bond left the hotel and flagged down a taxi.  For a moment, the thought that the manager would enter his room and snoop around had been considered by Bond, but he quickly dismissed the idea due to the fact that the weary old man had moved less than five inches since Bond had been in there.  He was safe.

The taxi had him back at the hotel by seven-thirty.  He hurried upstairs and hopped into the shower, first with the cold then with the warm.  When he was finished, he slipped into his khakis, the blue button-up, the fleece sweater, and the Oxfords.  When he was comfortable with his appearance, he rolled up his sweater and attached the black hip holster to his belt.  When he had slid the Walther inside, he looked at himself in his bedroom's floor-to-ceiling mirror.  The weapon was barely visible, and, as he soon learned by grabbing the weapon in and out, quite easily accessible.  It would only be used, of course, in a last-ditch effort, but it made Bond more comfortable knowing he had a useable weapon within his grasp.

By eight-thirty, Bond was dressed and ready.  He decided he'd go downstairs and have a quick drink at the lounge before meeting up with Vicki.  The hotel was getting crowded with the weekend's influx of travelers, so Bond had to wait for a table.  When he was seated, he ordered his martini.

By nine, the lounge was full.  There were people waiting to be seated at the door.  Through the crowd, Bond saw Vicki speaking with one of the waiters.  Was she staying at the hotel?  Or was there an FBI safe house nearby?  Bond assumed she wasn't part of the state branch.  M had said she checked things through Washington, where the Bureau was headquartered.  Was that the branch she was part of?

He supposed it didn't really matter.  M said she was a qualified agent.  She wouldn't be on this case if she weren't.  Bond would have to put up with her attitude and work on the case impassively.  He'd done it before.

She was beautiful, Bond had to admit.  He watched her cross the room, dressed in a tight black spaghetti-strap dress.  The back, Bond saw as she turned, was open except for a criss-crossing 'X' string pattern that climbed up to her neck.  Her hair was tied up behind her head in a tight bun.  Bond guessed he was carrying some kind of weapon, most likely in a small holster on the inside of her thigh.  She wore the same Stilettos she had worn that morning.

Vicki sat down at Bond's table, taking him out of his ponderous reverie.  "Well, if nothing else you're punctual," she said smartly, with a smart grin.  "We'd better get going."  She stood up.  "C'mon."

Bond grudgingly stood and followed Vicki outside the hotel to the sidewalk where a bright, beautiful BMW Z8 was parked.  The silver automobile was sleek, stylish, and above all suave.  The convertible auto, which Bond had used before, contained a powerful V-8 engine and a sophisticated technological ensemble, including a heads-up forward display, six beverage cup holders, and all the goodies Q Branch could shove into a small car like the Z8.

"I'll drive," Bond said before she could.  He knew she wanted to, but she silently permitted Bond to drive, lowering her head and waving to him to take the wheel.  Being in America, the driver's wheel was on the left-hand side.  When he had first come to the States many years before, Bond had had to remember to drive on the right side of the road instead of the English way on the left.

Bond keyed the roaring engine and hit the gas.  The car screamed down the street, until he met up with the customary New York traffic and was slowed.  It was almost quarter after now, and the nightlife would soon erupt from their daytime slumber to prey upon the good times New York nights had to offer.  Bond sighed.  This was going to be a long night.

He tried to make small talk.  "So, how long have you been working on this case?"  He tone oozed with false congeniality, in an attempt to be friendlier than the coldhearted woman sitting in the seat beside him.

She sort of laughed, not looking at him.  "Four years," she replied, almost with regret in her voice.  "Four long years."  She stared hard at the dashboard, as if there was something there.  She seemed to be going through things in her mind, contemplating the time she had spent chasing this horrible man across the United States.

Suddenly, Bond thought of something.  Did she have a personal angle in this case?  Was there something personal that had brought her into this assignment? Perhaps he'd ask.  "What do you know about this Dramond fellow?"  Perhaps later.

"He's a horrible man," she said with great hate.  "Horrible."  She looked at the dashboard once again.  There was silence for a long, tense moment.  Then she looked over at Bond, realized she was spacing, and coughed uncomfortably.  "Um, yeah.  He's a real piece of work.  Pedals drugs to kids.  Little kids.  Teenagers.  The so-called 'future of America.' "

Bond contemplated the facts running through his mind.  There was definitely something personal in this assignment.  What was it?  What had Dramond done to this FBI agent?  And if he had done something to her, would he recognize her?  Was she going to complicate his work here?

"So what's his plan here tonight?  Does he know anything?"

She laughed, then shrugged her shoulders.  "No.  Well, at least I don't think so. The FBI have backed off lately.  CIA too.  They think they're luring him into some kind of false sense of security.  Maybe it's working.  Maybe not.  It won't complicate the mission.  He doesn't know either of us, and we're not conspicuous."  She looked over Bond, then continued.  "No.  We'll be okay.  Did you get everything in order for tonight?"

Bond quickly explained to her his activities this afternoon, with renting the hotel and setting up the shot.  She apparently consented.

The car pulled four blocks from the club, and Bond turned to the girl.  "Nervous?"

She shook her head.  "Of course not," she replied, but Bond knew she was lying.  "You?"

Bond told her no.  "I never get nervous before a mission.  Used to.  Not anymore."  Thousands of images flashed through his mind; assignments that had gone off well.  Others that had failed.  Assignments that Bond would never forget.

The car pulled up to the front of the club.  There was quite a line assembled for such a small place.  Bond tossed the BMW's keys to the valet, who jumped inside and took the car around.  The bouncer at the front was shocked to see them skip the line at first, then realized that they had reservations.  He let them in, to the anger of those standing in line.

The inside of the club was a 'techno' theme, with the hip gray walls that sparkled with bright, terrific light when the bright colors came out.  The main room sloped in, with the main dance floor down several flights of stairs from the tables, which were above on raised landings.  Bond and Vicki were helped to table K on the third level down.  To Bond's amazement, several tables were already filled.  The bright lights were still on.  The performers were setting up on stage down on the dance floor.  Waiters were preparing tables all around them.

When their waiter had taken their order, Vicki leaned over to Bond and said, "He's not here."  Bond looked around and didn't see Dramond either.

He stared at the girl, whom was herself marveling at the place.  What was her story?  Was she a former druggie, lured into the dark world of narcotics and hallucinations by the same type of people that Dramond was?  Or had she known someone, someone close to her, that had been lured into the drug world by Dramond himself?  Was there a connection, or was it just Bond's senses playing a trick on him?

Finally, he needed to know.  "What's your deal with this guy?"

"Huh?" she asked.

Suddenly, their waiter returned.  He was a pleasant young man with a nice personality.  He was trying to make pleasant conversation.  Bond and Vicki both blew him off.

When he had gone, Bond pressed on.  "With Dramond.  There's something about you...like you know him.  Something personal.  What is it?"

She drew back, taken by surprise.  Now it was Bond who was forward.  She had mellowed out significantly since their first meeting hours before.  It was the onset of the mission.  The closer the mission got, the quieter she became.  Was she nervous?  

"I-I," she started, but didn't finish.  She looked for a moment like she was going to cry.  She stared hard at the white tablecloth.  Then, suddenly, she regained her composure and looked up at Bond.  Her eyes were glistening with fresh tears.  But she wiped her eyes and remained firm.

"I've been working on this case for four years.  Four years of following leads, grilling suspects, and doing research.  Four years of hard knocks and dead-ends.  I've been part of this man's life for four long years.  Or at least he's been part of mine.  And tonight I'm finally going to get him."  She wiped her eyes again.

"But you didn't answer my question."

She looked up into his eyes pleadingly, almost saying, please don't make me tell.  Please just leave me alone.  But Bond wouldn't.

"Four years ago," she said very lowly in a quiet, subdued voice.  "He came into my life four years ago.  My brother and I had both recently graduated from the FBI Academy.  We'd promised each other we'd try and get a job working together, but it didn't end up that way.  He got an opportunity to work in Miami, and I was transferred to the Bureau office in D.C.  That's where it all began."

So there was a connection!  Bond knew there had been.  Why had M done this?  The FBI was supposed to screen their agents.  If she had a personal agenda on this case, she wouldn't – or shouldn't – have been assigned.  She'd lied, obviously, to get this case.  Blast her, bloody girl.

"Anyway, I hadn't talked to my brother in a few years.  I knew he was working on some cases involving a drug smuggler, but I didn't know any of the details.  I had been too busy with my own work to bother myself with my little brother's work.  Maybe I should've been…"  Her voice trailed off and her eyes shot back down to the tablecloth.  She was trying to regain her composition.  Bond could tell she wasn't completely comfortable revealing all this in front of him.  But it was important.  He needed to know her story.  He couldn't let her emotions get the best of her.  She was crazy!  Didn't she realize that not only was she putting her life in danger—by clouding her perception and congesting her judgment—but she was also putting Bond's life and the lives of all these patrons at risk.  She was crazy!

Vicki looked back up at Bond.

"Well, I got the call when I was at the office," she continued.  "There had been a bust, and some of the officers had gone down.  The target had escaped, but was being pursued.  Well, my brother ended up being one of the officers that went down…"

"…and Dramond had been the target," Bond finished the story for her, finally putting all the pieces together.  It made sense now.  "And he was never caught."

She shook her head.  In his head, Bond let out a sigh of frustration.  _She _should not_ be on this case_, he thought to himself.  Her emotions would get the better of her, he knew.  What if she tried to kill Dramond herself?  Even worse, what if she missed?  Bond couldn't let that happen.  

Just then, Vicki looked up, her green eyes glistening with the tears, her mascara beginning to smear, and the single small tear sliding down her cheek, all thoughts of the evening's mission absconded from his mind.  There was only one objective: her.  His hand moved from her shoulder to her cheek.  She smiled, swallowed hard, and reached up herself and put her petite hand on his.

"I saw the pictures of my little brother lying on the floor, his body ridden with bullet holes.  He'd been shot fifty-seven times.  Fifty-seven."  Clearly the frightening experience was replaying slowly in her mind.  Her voice, though she was still crying, was firm and strong.  She hit each syllable hard and meaningfully.  Passion for revenge burned in her voice.  "I saw the surveillance video of the bust.  I watched as my brother was blown away.  The shots rung out, blowing holes in his body.  They continued, and continued, and continued, and I watched as his body was flung up in the air by the shots."  Her eyes seemed to have drifted somewhere else.  She was replaying the horrible image over and over in her head.  "I will never forget watching that video.

"I actually didn't found out until later that it was Alexander Dramond.  Because of my position within the Bureau office, I knew who he was.  I knew he was big.  I knew he was international, and now I knew there was an open spot in his case.

"Lucky for me, the Bureau had been looking for someone from the Bureau headquarters to help with the case as a national liaison.  I was chosen out of twenty-five agents for the job, the best pick for the position.  Top shooting, top intel, top research.  I wanted so bad to be on the case."  For the first time since it had arrived, she touched her champagne glass and slid her fingers over the thin glass stem.  Bond sipped his martini while he waited.  

"I guess when you want something bad enough it happens eventually.  I've worked hard on this case."  Her voice was firm again.  "And now I've gotten here, with you, tonight, and we're about to kill this man."

Bond blew out a long breath.  So that was it.  She was after this man who killed her brother four years ago.  She was going to kill him tonight if she died doing it.  Was she safe?  She wasn't thinking rationally.  Would she put others at risk?  Would she risk her cover?  Would she risk Bond's cover?

He didn't know.  But he wasn't taking any chances.  He had to think of some way to get rid of her before he killed Dramond.

Suddenly, Bond heard the doors open above him.  He turned around and watched as a group of people entered the club.

The lead was tall and dark.  He had brown hair, a brown beard, and a slim face.  His eyes were cool and calculating, though somewhat dark and hiding.  He wore a black suit, white button-up, and red tie.  He walked down the aisle in the lead, in front of two tall men Bond sized up as bodyguards.  His gait was slow, regal, and demanded attention.  He wore the aura of a proud, self-righteous man who commanded attention from those around him.  He seemed, to Bond, to be the kind of person that expected everyone to drop to one knee and praise his works and follow his every word as if it was the word of God.  Even the smug little smile that his thin lips had warped into supported Bond's assumption.

"That's Dramond!" Vicki whispered.  Revenge flashed in her eyes, but she remained seated.  Well, at least she knew what she could and couldn't do.  She watched him calmly and coolly as he and his bodyguards headed down to the bottom level and sat at table A.

All of a sudden, a thought flashed through Bond's mind.  Did Dramond have a list of the people in this place, and their table settings?  Did he know that Bond and Vicki, even though he didn't know that they were secret agents, were sitting at this table?  Did he know their names?

The lights slowly dimmed, and the strobes on the stage began to flash rapidly.  A rock group appeared on stage, screaming their music so that the surround-sound speakers blasted it at an alarming volume.  One man, a guy with spiked black hair, strummed an electric guitar while singing backup.  A drummer in the background beat out a fast, rapid, catchy rhythm that, despite Bond's stoic musical tastes, he found himself tapping his foot along with.  Two levels down, Bond watched Dramond order a drink and continue watching the band, one he apparently enjoyed.

Vicki was not paying attention to the band. She was staring at the stem of her now-empty champagne glass, pondering the various pains and tortures that Dramond might go through during his assassination.  Bond turned away from her and continued partially enjoying the music.

The pace stayed the same for the next hour or so.  Couples got out onto the dance floor and started partying.  Half way in, Bond began to get bored.  He continued focusing on Dramond, who was eyeing a few women across the room.  Bond guessed he was quite the ladies' man.

Eventually, as the musical pace changed and mellowed out into a slower set, Bond's attention turned to the bodyguards.  The two men that had entered with Dramond had split up.  One was at the bar, on the far left side, leaning a sipping what appeared to be a Budweiser beer.  The other was standing behind Dramond, leaning on the rail that separated the levels.  Dramond paid little attention to the two men.  Perhaps he was overly self-confident.  All the more to Bond's advantage.

By eleven, Bond was utterly bored.  Vicki, on the other hand, was beginning to enjoy the music.  When the band took a fifteen-minute intermission, and one of the bodyguards followed Dramond towards the bathroom to the right of the bar, Bond stood.  He asked if Vicki would like a drink; yes, please, another glass of champagne.  Bond smiled, patted her on the shoulder, and headed down towards the bar.

He took a detour at the bathroom, and saw that the stark-white hallway was bare except for the bodyguard, who was staring at a vent on the roof.  Bond saw his opportunity.

"Excuse me?" Bond said.  The bodyguard turned, and was greeted by a firm fist right in his face.

But either the punch wasn't as strong as Bond had expected or the bodyguard was exceptionally tough, because the man only fell backwards and then returned the favor.  This punch fell in Bond's stomach, knocking the secret agent down to the ground.  The man lunged, but Bond was too quick.  He rolled out from under his attacker, then delivered a sharp kick directly into the man's stomach.  The guard toppled in agony.

Bond's next attack was a swift, powerful blow to the bodyguard's neck.  Bond heard a crack, and decided it was enough.  The man wasn't moving.  Bond had knocked him out.  Possibly broken his neck?  No, he was still breathing.  Good.  Bond grabbed the burly man and drug him the rest of the way down the hall to the door marked 'sanitation.'  He closed the door and, satisfied, returned to the bar.

When Dramond came out, Bond saw him pause for a second, then shrug and return to his table.  Perhaps the bodyguard had gone back to the table.  

Bond took the two drinks back to his table.  "Do you know what time Dramond usually leaves?" Bond asked Vicki.

She nodded her head.  "Around midnight, usually with a woman."

Bond sat back, satisfied.  There was another good half-hour until midnight.  Dramond had returned to his table, though he looked a little confused as to the whereabouts of his bodyguard.  He was making eyes again at the woman across the way, and he soon went across the floor and spoke to her.

Bond wanted to make small talk with the agent sitting beside him.  All they had in common was shoptalk.  He had been thinking about it, and he almost regretted asking about the woman's connection.  He felt he'd overstepped the boundary between them.  Now he was _involved_.  Great.

"It's been going through my mind," Bond asked.  She looked up.  "How's he do all this?  How does he smuggle?"

Vicki looked up and rolled her eyes.  "I see you didn't read the dossier," she replied smartly.  Bond smiled.  She was back.  She dramatically flicked back her head and downed half the glass of champagne.  Boy, could she stomach it!  When she was done, she sat the glass down and turned to him.

"He's a tricky one," Vicki began.  "That's why it took so long for us to track him down.  He uses these lieutenants, or so he calls them, as covers.  Most of them he's never met.  There's one yacht he uses, one we've tracked down at least, that carries the drugs.  The _Mantacore,_ a small private job that has a permit to travel between Spain and the Bahamas.  We caught it in Nassau about nine months ago, with a load of heroin and opium.  The captain killed himself before we could ask any questions.  Cyanide in a little capsule."  She smiled with amusement.

"Well, we didn't impound the ship.  The crew, which was a small skeleton crew of about fifteen, were kept in Nassau under DEA arrest.  No word got out.  The log was on board, and we took the drugs, under cover, to the arranged drop point.  Two of us followed the pickup back to a shellfish fishery a couple miles outside of Nassau along the beach.  Little place, but it takes in a lot of shellfish and ships them up to Miami every other weekend.  This is where it really gets interesting.

"One of the fishermen at this fishery took the drugs, which were disguised in a small crate, to the storage basin where they kept some of the mollusks they fished out.  The drugs had already been melted down until they were in this liquid form, and the fishermen—two locals who had been paid of by the yacht captain—covered the shellfish in this substance and let it dry in the cooler.  Luckily, nobody took notice because these guys were the top fishermen on the boat and apparently nobody bothered them.  These guys took the shellfish up to the mainland on Saturday and sold them to a market where these were the only mollusks sold.  People came in and took the shellfish.  We trailed a few of them, and only about two threw the shells out.  The other ones had the shells vaporized.  For some reason, the vapors made the drugs come off the shells, and these people were the druggies.  They took the drugs to the malls and the arcades and the street corners.

"These guys are slick.  Smuggling the drugs on the seafood, right under the noses of the inspectors at Customs.  Oh, and for some reason they didn't give off an odor.  It was weird.  But that was the first shipment we caught.  We don't know much about the other parts of his operation."  She finished off her drink and turned back towards the band, who were back to their hard rock antics.

"Fascinating," Bond said as he himself finished his martini.  Then he slipped out his gunmetal cigarette case and put one in his mouth.  He used his Ronson to light it, took a long puff, and blew out a long thin stream of smoke.

Dramond was laughing with the woman across the way.  She rose to leave, but he pulled her back down.  Dramond motioned towards his still-available bodyguard.  The other one was absent.  Bond observed Dramond having a word with the bodyguard, and mused about what they were saying.  Did the bodyguard know where the other one went?  No, of course not.  Hmm.  Interesting.  What was going on?  Dramond shrugged.  Maybe he went out to the car.  Go see.  Bond watched the man leave.  Another down.

Bond touched Vicki's arm.  He motioned behind them.  Dramond and his men were getting ready to leave, and Bond needed to get to the room across the street.  She smiled, touched his arm, and let him leave.  He dropped his cigarette in the ashtray as he did.

Dramond and the woman paused before they stood.  The band was finishing up their last set.  By the time the song was over, Bond was across the room in the bedroom, his chair sitting by the window, the agent himself loading the clip of .400 ammo into the cavity in front of the trigger.

The doors of the club slowly opened.  The bouncer held the handle as Dramond, his arm linked with the feisty-looking blonde he had left with, exited the club, laughing and joking.  From the fifty-yard distance between buildings, Bond used the night-vision scope to watch the couple.  Dramond's limo, driven by his personal chauffer, pulled up to the front.

Bond's finger slid onto the trigger.  His eyes focused on Dramond, the playful smirk crossing the drug dealer's deceitful mouth.  The bodyguard stepped out of the rear driver's side seat, crossed around, and whispered something to Dramond as the woman entered the car.  The other bodyguard wasn't there.  Where was he?

Bond didn't care.  Dramond shouldn't.  He was about to die.  Suddenly, a phrase popped into his mind.  _Never send a man where you can send a bullet._  This was so much safer.  If Bond was to shoot the man up close, the way poorly planned assassinations normally went, his chances of escape were bad.  Luckily, everything had been planned out.  The shot would go off, and Bond would drop down.  The only sound would be the crack of the muzzle as the shot blazed into Dramond's body.  It would take the bodyguard a while to realize what had happened.  By then, Bond would be gone.  He'd dismantle the gun in ten seconds, the same time it would take for him to cross the room and leave the room.  A crowd would assemble outside the club, so Bond would use the hotel's rear exit.  Vicki would take the BMW to the parking lot behind the hotel, where Bond would be waiting beside a refuse bin.  They would leave the area, go to the hotel, where Bond would quickly pack and be out by three.  His ticket would be waiting at the desk at terminal eight of JFK International Airport.  He'd be back in London for brunch.  M's requests for an operational assessment would be waiting on his desk.  He'd be there for a few days working on those, until the wire would come over from the FBI and give him the remaining information and the clean-up details.  Of course, the FBI would have spoken to the NYPD and had told them of the assignment.  They would tell the media they were investigating, throw those who cared a few leads, and shut the case up.  No cause of death, of course.

The FBI would finish taking down Dramond's remaining operation.  He was the key to shutting everything down.  Most of his associates would know it was a government job, and back off a little.  If the FBI could take them down when they were weak, it would work much better.  And it would be all thanks to Bond.

His finger tightened on the trigger.  The bodyguard moved to the front door.  He smiled.  Vicki was about to get her revenge.  She was lovely girl.  Bond wanted to do this for her.  He'd killed her brother, and numerous others.  He provided drugs to kids.  He was sick.  He deserved to die.

Bond's eyes narrowed, his crosshairs focused on Alexander Dramond's forehead, and his finger jerked the trigger back.


	3. The Eternal Flame

The Parisian avenue was loud, crowded, and expensive, as were most of the prominent shop-lined streets.  Bewildered tourists window-shopped at the expensive boutiques and dress stores, while experienced endemic patrons darted from shop to shop, avoiding the tourists and picking up only what they needed.

In a gated-off café in the center of the avenue, James Bond sat at a table for two, drinking his second Americano and watching the pedestrian adventure that was unfolding before him.  He noticed the policemen, striding down the street in dark blue uniforms waving at _madame_ such-and-such, and nodding at _monsieur_ so-and-so.  Bond watched the seniors—the old men who sat on benches and talked about old times and told lies about the new ones; the old women who complained about their husbands.  He watched the French women, the rich, married ones, as they sat at bistro tables sipping coffee and gossiping about what happened to the lady-down-the-street.  He watched the children, running around their parents and chasing their brother or sister, causing innocent mischief, as children tend to do.

Bond himself hated these French avenues, the crowded street stores and tasteless cafés.  The one he was seated at was particularly nice, and served Bond well since he knew the manager.

James Bond sat and sipped as his Americano, a mixture of bitter Campari, Cinzano, and Perrier soda, augmented by a thick slice of lemon peel.  The drink was not a hard mixture; a French street café was no place for the harder liquors Bond enjoyed: vodka, whiskey, or gin.  He knew this fact and responded to it without hesitation.  Besides, Bond had a fond affinity for the Americano; memories tainted by time but still fresh in Bond's sharp mind.

Across the table from Bond, the Frenchman sat staring back at the Englishman without an expression on his face.  He was quietly sipping his cappuccino, watching the events on the avenue just as Bond had been moments before.

"Is it not incredible, _m'sieur_ Bond?" the Frenchman suddenly spoke, his deep voice booming from underneath his bushy mustache.  "The very fact of life, the simple things that keep us going each day.  It is truly one of the most fascinating aspects of the human existence."

Bond contemplated this slightly as he looked over the Frenchman.  There was more than the fact of human existence running through the mind of secret agent James Bond.  Bond knew how dangerous this mission was.  The mission's very success depended on this Frenchman and his knowledge.  Bond prayed that the operation would be a success.

Pierre Aubergine did not look like a criminal.  In fact, he looked more like a banker or a doctor than anything else.  He was shorter than Bond, of average build, with thinning salt-and-pepper hair, thick eyebrows, and a bushy mustache.  He wore a brown tweed jacket and similar slacks, with a tan Oxford and no necktie.  He was unassuming, unpretentious, and calm, as if the Frenchman didn't even known he was sitting across from a secret agent.

He didn't look like a criminal.  But Pierre Aubergine _was_ a criminal.

There was no doubt about that fact.  Pierre Aubergine had broken the law many times but had managed to evade justice thus far.  Aubergine, like many criminals, was not above bribery and greed, a fact that served Bond well.  If Aubergine was indeed who M said he was, the Frenchman could be one of Bond's greatest assets.

_If indeed Aubergine _was_ who M said he was_, Bond thought.  The secret agent had no doubt whatsoever in the word of his boss, but there was, of course, the customary suspicion that went with every mission.  But, then again, this was no ordinary mission.  So often in the life of a secret agent, an operation takes place exactly as it is planned.  Nothing deviates from the set course—at least nothing under the agent's control.  James Bond had been set on many of these missions in his lifetime.

But this time, just this one time, Bond had deviated from his mission.

James Bond was never supposed to have met Pierre Aubergine.  The Frenchman wasn't notorious enough to be well known, even among agents of Bond's caliber.  This was one of the reasons Bond had been selected for his mission against Aubergine.  Bond knew nothing about the Frenchman.

But M had seen the situation differently than the analysists that had provided a mission outline and the Minister of Defense that had ordered M to carry out the mission.  This mission was not the one Bond was supposed to be undertaking.  To everyone at SIS except Bond, M, and a very few others, this meeting was not taking place.

●          ●          ●

It had all started a few weeks before, in dreary London.  Bond had been ordered to M's office, but when he arrived in the spacious room overlooking Hyde Park, the secret agent knew something was wrong.  There was an air of disparity in the room; Bond sensed that a struggle was occurring even within the old woman herself.

The first sign had been M's manner.  Quiet, withdrawn—there had been no welcome when the secret agent walked through the door.  The second clue had been her drink.  Bond noticed the straight whiskey sitting on the woman's desk.  Not a good sign.  Times were few and far between when the head of Bond's department drank whiskey, especially straight.  The old lady was tough, but straight whiskey was even strong for Bond's tastes.

"Sit down," had been the commanding order from M, accompanied by a motion towards one of the office's two armchairs.  Bond complied, sitting in the one closest to M's desk.  As he did, she flicked her wrist and flung at him a dossier, which slid across the desk so fast that the secret agent had to lunge to keep it from falling on the floor.

She stood then, moving towards the window on the opposite wall.  The window gave a commanding view of downtown London's Hyde Park and the hustle and bustle that went on around it.  M watched the traffic for a few moments, and then turned back to Bond.

"What do you know about MAX, Double-0h Seven?" M asked.

The secret agent thought.  "Not much," he replied.  "Then again, not many people know much about him.  Big-time terrorist, dealing mainly in information.  Sells his info to the highest bidder, if the price suits.  Reclusive fellow.  Nobody's ever seen him, as far as we know.  CIA's been after him for some time now."

"Us too," M replied, now pacing.  "MAX's deals have left a total of four of our agents in Eastern Europe dead.  Two CIA chaps as well.  He stole a list of our undercover men a few months ago and sold it to various groups, preventing us from recovering it.  We pulled out as many agents as we could, but we weren't fast enough.  Four were killed, in various countries."  She motioned to the dossier.  "It's in there, too," she explained.  "The PM's been on our tail to get MAX as soon as possible.  Minister of Defense has even organized a special analysis team to research him."

Now Bond remembered MAX.  There had been another case, the agent recalled as he sat in M's office, concerning a certain Frenchman in Rome.  The Frenchman, possibly one within MAX's organization, had given himself up to British authorities in Italy, claiming to have knowledge about MAX's top projects.  But the man was found dead in a hotel room two days later, with a mysterious 'flame' mark on his back.  The flame mark, a tattoo, had been attributed to MAX's entire organization as something of a logo.  The flame had been found on the backs of two of MAX's other victims—the four British agents and two American ones that M had spoken of only moments earlier.

M stopped pacing then, turning and looking straight at Bond.  Her tone dropped an octave as she continued, adding dread to the already somber ambiance of the discussion.  "The analysts think they may have uncovered his identity."

Suddenly, the lights in the room darkened.  A portion of the wall behind M's desk slid up, revealing a large monitor.  The monitor flashed to life, displaying a large image of the diminutive Frenchman from the café.  "This is Pierre Aubergine," M said.  Bond knew the old woman was controlling the state-of-the-art display unit from a spot behind him.  "His is a familiar name in the French underworld.  He's wanted by us, CIA, DGSE, Mossad, INTERPOL, and a handful of others for drug trafficking and prostitution, just to name a few of his indisgretions.  They'll never pick him up, and neither will we.  He's too useful for that.

"Aubergine sold his soul a long time ago, Double-Oh Seven.  The man's been taking bribes from various intelligence agencies since he first arrived on the scene.  His knowledge of the black market and his assortment of contacts make him an invaluable asset to the entire intelligence community.  Nobody's the wiser, and nobody gets hurt, except for the person he squeals on.  He always prospers.  And everybody keeps coming back."

It wasn't unheard of in the intelligence community to pick up an asset outside the normal field of operating parameters.  Bond had found outside sources of information hundreds of times in the past.  It was just another part of his work, as far as he was concerned.  For the contact, it was a way to make an easy buck and to screw over somebody who had hurt them in the past.  Aubergine was no different than the others Bond had turned to for information.

"The Minister's analysts think that Pierre Aubergine is MAX," M finally said, getting to the point.  "He's got all the right connections, and the perfect alibis.  They've prepared a twenty-page brief on it, but I won't bore you with all that.  They've supposedly covered every aspect.  However, they conveniently left out the fact that Aubergine has provided sound, knowledgeable intelligence to us in the past, which those same analysts were unable to obtain themselves."

M shut down the monitor and turned the lights back on.  "They're wrong, Double-Oh Seven," the woman said confidently.  There was no uncertainty in her voice; she was positive.  "I've had my own analysts draw up some information on Aubergine, too, and they concluded it can't possibly be him.  Too many loopholes in the other brief.  Besides, the PM's been harassing the Minister to get rid of MAX for months now.  He's just looking for a quick way out, Bond.  And this is the wrong way out.

"I've been ordered to have you kill Aubergine, Double-Oh Seven," M conceded.  "The mission came direct from the Minister's office, priority.  Right here is it," M said, motioning to the thick file in her IN box.  "But you're not getting it.  As much as I hate to do this, I'm not sending you on that mission."

_Then what am I here for?_ Bond wondered impatiently.  Paperwork was piling up on his desk downstairs, and if M had called him up here for no purpose, he was going to be extremely displeased.

"I am, however, sending you on another mission," M said.  "A few of my own field contacts have arranged a meeting between you and Aubergine for tomorrow afternoon.  The Courtyard Café, downtown Paris.  I know you like the place, which is why I selected it.  Aubergine has promised to give us some intelligence on MAX.  There will need to be an exchange.  Funds have been arranged and are waiting in a bank account in the Cayman Islands.  Moneypenny has all the paperwork drawn up already.  All you need to do is go to the meeting."

Bond rolled all this around in his head.  It certainly was against M's usual demeanor to go against the Minister to Defense.  It had to be important if she was going to arrange her own mission and give it to Bond.  He drummed his thumbs on the dossier.

"Your plane leaves in two hours," M said.  "Red-eye flight straight into Paris.  You'll spend the night in Paris and meet Aubergine later that afternoon."

Bond nodded and stood.  "Thank you, ma'am," he said.

"Like I said, Moneypenny has the rest of your information.  That dossier has a complete outline of the operation.  Please read it during the flight."

Bond promised to and headed for the door.  M stopped him again.  "James?"

It was not common for the woman to call the secret agent by his Christian name, so he turned immediately.  "Yes?"

"Thank you," she said.  "And good luck."

●          ●          ●

Now, a day later, here Bond was, sipping an Americano across from the contact that was going to give him information about MAX.  Nothing had been said about their 'mutual connection' yet, but Bond knew it was coming.

"I know what you are thinking, _m'sieur_ Bond," Aubergine said, once again startling the agent.  His voice, deep and commanding, reached out like a strong hand and slapped Bond from his reverie.

"And what is that?" Bond replied.

"You know," Aubergine replied.  "You know."

Slowly setting his glass down on the table, the secret agent continued normally.  "Is that so?" Bond replied.

"Don't patronize me, Mr. Bond," Aubergine remarked strongly.  "I know more about you than you think.  Her Majesty's Secret Servant, Agent Double-Oh Seven, licensed to kill or be killed.  Still using the same Walther PPK, aren't' you, _mon ami_?  There are so many better firearms available today.  Walther has been an antique for years."  The Frenchman seemed to smirk at this.

Bond let the comment about his firearm use roll off his back.  He was more interested in how Aubergine had come into the knowledge of his agent number—anonymity was an agent's greatest ally, and Bond had just lost his.

"I see you've done your homework, _m'sieur_," Bond replied, studying Aubergine's face for some kind of betraying emotion.  There were none.  His entire being seemed devoid of readable emotions, something Bond had not noticed when the meeting began.  "You seem to be quite relaxed sitting there," Bond continued.  "Would I be right in assuming that I am in the sight of a sniper's rifle?"

Aubergine grinned.  "Bravo, _m'sieur_ Bond.  I see that you too have done your homework.  I commend you on this."

Bond stared the Frenchman in the eyes.  "I'm afraid you didn't answer my question."  Bond's hand slowly moved into his jacket.

Aubergine did not flinch.

"That would _not_ be wise, Mr. Bond," Aubergine replied.  "There are two snipers ready to kill you if you so much as stretch without my permission."  There was nothing comical about the way Aubergine spoke; Bond knew the man meant business.

The secret agent relaxed his hand, leaning back in his chair.  "I'm impressed by your flippancy, _m'sieur_," Bond quipped, watching as Aubergine's mouth twisted into a cold sneer.  "If I was in your position, I think I'd be more apprehensive."

The Frenchman's gaze did not break Bond's own.  "Your attitude amuses me, Bond.  I don't think you realize just how worrying your predicament is."

_What?_ Bond wondered.  Who was this man sitting across from him?  Bond knew that Aubergine had connections throughout the underworld, but he had no idea that the Frenchman had access to information about SIS, and especially about Bond himself.  Did Aubergine still think that Bond had been sent to kill him?  Or was the Frenchman just taking the necessary precautions?

Needless to say the secret agent was not sitting comfortably.

"_M'sieur_ Bond, your predicament is most enjoyable," the Frenchman said.  "Relax, _mon ami_.  Rest assured that I have no intentions to utilize the 'assets' I've spoken of."

Again, Bond was slightly bewildered.  This man—this simple Frenchman—was more complex than the hundreds of other criminals Bond had faced.  A moment ago, Aubergine had sneered at Bond about the use of two snipers at the Frenchman's beckon and call.  Now, the Frenchman was joking about it.  To Bond, the situation was no laughing matter.

The Minister of Defense had certainly been wrong about _monsieur_ Pierre Aubergine.

"I want to thank you for agreeing to this meeting, _m'sieur_," Aubergine said.  "And I know that you must have many questions about everything that is going on—but, I assure you, in time, all things will be made clear."

The waiter returned to their table, interrupting the conversation.  "Can I get you anything else, _messieurs?_"

Before Bond could reply, he was interrupted by a scream.

Then another scream, this one male.

Then, more screaming.

Finally, a gunshot rang out.

Spinning, James Bond saw the source of the commotion. 

A gunman was rushing towards the café, _towards Bond in particular_, brandishing a revolver.  Finally, the assassin stopped, frozen in the middle of the street, and saw what he was looking for.  

The man raised his weapon and took aim at his target.

James Bond dropped from his seat onto the ground, reaching inside his jacket and retrieving his Walther PPK from the chamois shoulder holster in which it rested.  Turning, he could see that Aubergine too had dropped from his seat and taking cover behind the table.  Other patrons, Bond could both hear and see, had ducked down.  All around them, it was chaos.  People were running for cover; those who weren't had ducked down behind tables or whatever was close enough to provide suitable protection.  Women screamed, children cried, and men wrapped their arms tightly around their wives as if that action alone would save their love.

But Bond did not have time to focus on that now.

Spinning, he took aim with his Walther.  By now, the gunman had fired another round from the revolver, the bullet sailing high over the heads of the café patrons and slamming with great force into the brick wall of the café.  As the man took aim for another shot, Bond took advantage of the situation and readied his own shot.

But he was too slow.  A nearby police officer had moved quickly to apprehend the madman who had opened fire on the crowded street.  Crouching into an aiming position, the cop fired one round from his weapon into the attacker.  The bullet cut into the middle of the man's back, and the would-be assassin jerked as if he had been hit by a strong bat.  His body bowed, then went taut.  His gun clattered to the ground.  The entire avenue seemed to be silent as the gunman's body fell to the ground with a _thud_.

The blast from the policeman's gun echoed down the street.

Bond looked around.  The carnage was over.  Around them, the patrons of the café, and the patrons everywhere on the street, were rising to see what had become of the madman.  The policeman had rushed over to the fallen man to check his pulse and radio back to headquarters for support.  Bond stood, slowly, covertly returning his pistol to its holster.  Aubergine rose, dusting off his jacket as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Bond's eyes narrowed as he sized up the Frenchman.  "Is he—?"

"Mine?"  Aubergine seemed to have read Bond's mind.  "Of course not, _m'sieur_."

"Than whose?"

One word escaped the mouth of Pierre Aubergine.

"MAX."

●          ●          ●

The two men left the café and headed to the sidewalk, where they waited for less than a minute.  A long black limousine pulled up, its sleek exterior shining in the bright afternoon sun.  The driver climbed from the front seat and opened the door for Aubergine and Bond, who quickly climbed in.

As Bond climbed into the car, the secret agent realized that he and the Frenchman were not alone.  Across from Bond sat one of the most striking French women the secret agent had ever met.  Dressed in a business-like tan jacket and pants suit over a white blouse, the woman had pearly-white skin that was only augmented by her silky black hair, pulled back into a tight bun at the back of her head.  Her green eyes stared into Bond's own, inquisitive and fascinated by the handsome Englishman.  She wore pointed Stilettos and a silver bracelet around her wrist.  A pair of thin black glasses rested simply on the bridge of her nose.  She had an air of affluence and intelligence around her, an aura that Bond found alluring and sexy.

Aubergine slid into the limo and slammed the door shut, signaling for the driver to take off.  "Forgive me, _m'sieur_," Aubergine said.  "Please allow me to introduce _m'amoiselle_ Charlize Veraut, one of my closest advisors."

"A pleasure," Bond said, extending his hand.

"The pleasure is all mine," she said, staring at him but refusing to accept his handshake.

"_M'amoiselle_ Veraut has been working with me since the beginning," Aubergine began.  "She has a very close understanding of my contacts and my network.  I've been grooming her to follow in my footsteps.  She's very gifted, not only behind a desk but also as a field operative.  Though I have little need for an agent such as yourself, _m'sieur_ Bond, I find as many chances as I can get to utilize Charlize's many talents.

"Now, I understand that your organization is interested in receiving information about the enigma known as MAX," Aubergine said.  "I must admit that even I, with my extensive contacts, was hard-pressed to uncover information about the man.  Had it not been for my personal connection to him, I would have very little information whatsoever."

_Personal connection?_ Bond wondered.

"A few months ago, an attempt was made on my life in Monte Carlo.  I escaped safely, thank God, but we were skeptical, trying to discover who had tried to kill me.  We traced the assassin back to MAX, who had, for some reason, decided that I was a threat to his organization.  We caught up with the assassin a few days later in Bordeaux.  He was trying to find a train ticket out of the city.  He was permanently silenced later that day.

"That man was part of a group called the Eternals," Aubergine continued.  "I've been following their work for some time now.  They are MAX's top assassins, totally silent and deadly, but highly intelligent.  The one we eliminated in Bordeaux seemed to be the exception to the rule, but most are incredibly talented.  Some were recruited from the KGB after it dissolved; some are discharged intelligence agents; others are freelance killers.

"I'm sure you are familiar with the strange flame symbol that has been associated with MAX and his organization.  The symbol is a sign of MAX's assassins, his Eternals.  Each of them has a blue flame tattooed onto their arm.  After each kill, they mark their victim with a small red flame denoting the fact that that particular victim was unable to escape the Eternals."

Bond nodded, taking this all in.  _Strange_, he thought.  M's analysts had been unable to uncover this information concerning the flame markings on the victims, yet Aubergine had seemed to expose it so quickly and speak of it so openly.  His connections were deeper than Bond thought.

Aubergine went on.  "My contacts tried to uncover why MAX was so interested in eliminating me, but they failed to find a reason.  A _specific_ reason, that is.  A few weeks after the first attempt on my life, another one of my rivals was eliminated in Berlin.  I believe MAX may have been trying to eliminate any competition on the black market.  In any case, MAX turned his attention away from me.  Or so we thought.  

"We assumed he had given up on me.  That is, until you showed up.  For some time now we had known that MAX had inserted double agents into both the CIA and your own  organization.  We never believed, though, that he would go so far as this."

"As far as what?" Bond asked.

"MAX's agents sent you on this mission, _m'sieur_," Aubergine completed.  "They infiltrated your organization, fed your boss some false information, and arranged for my death.  I suppose MAX thought you would succeed where his own agents had failed."

Bond was stunned.  He knew that MAX's connections were extensive, but he had no idea that the criminal's reach extended into SIS and CIA.  Did he have agents in other intelligence groups as well?  More importantly, the men that had arranged Bond's original mission—the one intended to kill Aubergine—were SIS's top analysts.  The utter fact that those men were double agent put MAX's spanning network of agents into a whole new light.

"That is not all, _m'sieur_," Aubergine still went on.  "My agents have learned that my planned assassination by you was to coincide with another of MAX's big deals.  He has recovered a full list of the agents in Europe.  _A full list_.  We know that he has also found a buyer for the list."  He looked at Bond for a gauged response.  "I'm sure that I don't have to remind you, _of all people_, of the repercussions of this information getting out on the black market."

Bond was shocked by the information.  A full list of all SIS agents operating in Europe!  Information like that, leaked onto the black market, would cause panic within SIS.  Agents would be pulled out of the field immediately, possibly ruining years of undercover work.  Long-standing operations would be ruined.  Surely a few of the agents would lose their jobs, possibly even their lives.

Bond intended to take action at once.  "I appreciate all this," Bond said to the Frenchman.  "And I have something in exchange.  We've set up a closed bank account for you, to the sum of fifty thousand euros.  I'm sure it will more than make up for all the work you've put into this."  

The Frenchman held up a hand in protest.  "_Non_, _m'sieur_," he contested.  "No.  I have a better proposition for you.  Something that will be beneficial for the both of us.

"I want to propose a union, a coalition of sorts, to take down MAX.  Totally organized by my own agents and financed by myself.  It will cost your organization nothing, including my fee for the information I've shared with you.  _M'amoiselle_ Veraut has already organized much of the operation, including the crew we'll be taking, a combination of freelance agents and mercenaries from all across Europe.  The transaction between MAX and his buyer will take place on a train from France to England, through the Chunnel.  The tickets have already been purchased for myself, _m'amoiselle_ Veraut, and the rest of my crew—plus one more ticket for you, if you'll take it."  Aubergine turned expectantly toward Bond.

The secret agent was unsure what to say.  This mission was already strange and unorthodox enough—should he take it a step further and stop MAX now?  Couldn't he just organize his own group of agents to prevent the transaction?  Besides, Aubergine was trustworthy as far as information was concerned, but _this_?  Could this be too far?

"I realize this may be unconventional," Aubergine said, "but what else could you do?  Your organization won't provide agents, legally at least, because supposedly you're to be killing me right now."  He smiled sadistically.  "And even if you were to find a team, how would you explain your actions to your boss?"

Bond shook his head, not knowing how to answer.

"You see my point?  If you want to get this man, _m'sieur_, you have to join me.  What do you say?" he finally asked.

Bond couldn't respond immediately.  He was totally stunned by everything.  Bond wasn't against teaming with the man.  Bond had teamed with criminals before, but those times Bond had been under orders from M.  This instance was not—though Bond doubted M would have much of a problem with Bond joining forces with Aubergine to defeat MAX.  A familiar mantra kept running through Bond's head: _The enemy of your enemy is your friend_.

"Deal," Bond said, extending his hand to Aubergine.

The Frenchman accepted it and shook it heartily.

As Bond released the Frenchman's hand, the limo slowly stopped and the engine died.  Bond looked about curiously.

"Where are we?" the secret agent asked.

The chauffer had already opened the door and the Frenchman was allowing the lady, Charlize, to climb out.  "_Juste un moment_, _m'sieur_," the Frenchman said.  "All your questions will be answered."

Bond waited for Aubergine to exit the limo, then finally stepped out himself.  He found that the limo had stopped in front of an imposing hotel on the Champs-Élysées.  Behind Bond, the chauffer was now unloading suitcases from the boot of the car and setting them on the sidewalk for the bellhop to take into the building.

"What are we doing here?" Bond asked Aubergine, who was standing nearby with the girl.

"I've taken the liberty of reserving two rooms in the hotel for you this evening," Aubergine said as if Bond had known him for years and it would be perfectly acceptable for the Frenchman to do something of that sort.  "You've been followed since you first landed, _m'sieur_ Bond, by one of the Eternals.  Your hotel is not safe any longer.  They know where you're staying and they know that you've met with me instead of killing me.  It's only a matter of time before they put—how do you British say it?—'two and two together,' and figure out that I've told you everything."

Bond nodded.  It made sense.  But if the Eternals had followed him since the airport, where were they now?  Did they know he was at the hotel?

Bond expressed his concern to the Frenchman.  "No, _m'sieur_," Aubergine replied.  "We are safe here.  We lost your shadow at the café."

Bond nodded.

"We'd better get inside," Aubergine said, checking his watch.  "I've made dinner reservations and you must unpack."

Bond raised an eyebrow, then turned and noticed that the chauffer had also unloaded Bond's bag from the limo.  "We picked up your belongings at the hotel during lunch," Aubergine explained.  "They'll be ready for you when you get to your room."  The Frenchman looked up at the towering establishment before them.  "Shall we?"

●          ●          ●

The hotel turned out to be the Sofitel Champs- Élysées, one of the most popular and glamorous hotels in Paris.  The hotel offered a five-star restaurant on its ground floor, where Aubergine had arranged for Bond and Charlize to meet him around six, once they were settled in their separate rooms.  As it turned out, their rooms were directly across the hall from one another.  Bond indeed found the girl attractive, but Bond had decided anything more than distanced attraction would be inappropriate.

Bond headed down to the restaurant as soon as he was done with his unpacking.  He made sure he was armed as he headed down to the main floor.  Regardless of what Aubergine had said, Bond was still concerned about MAX's men.  If they could infiltrate SIS, they could certainly find Bond in Paris.

The restaurant, Les Signatures, was quite attractive.  Based off the modern-looking reception area, with its large potted plants and high-arched pillars, the brightly lit room was designed contemporarily, with heavily cushioned chairs situated around large, linen-covered tables.  A potted plant centerpiece sat in the center of each table, adding a fresh look.  Large glass windows looked out on the street, where cars were slowly making their way down the Champs-Élysées.

As he entered, a waiter tried to assist Bond with finding a table.

"No, thank you," Bond replied in French.  "I'm meeting someone."

"_M'sieur_!" Aubergine exclaimed, standing as he spotted Bond.  Their table was near one of the windows, and Bond quickly moved through the room to reach them.  In the background, the soft sounds of Bach played quietly.

"_Bonsoir_," Aubergine greeted Bond as the secret agent took his seat.  The girl, Charlize Veraut, was already seated to Bond's left.  Aubergine was directly across from Bond.

A waiter arrived seconds after Bond was seated, with a menu for the new guest.  The secret agent glanced over it, while Aubergine ordered _filet mignon_ for himself and Charlize.  Bond finally decided on the lobster _au gratin_ with kidney beans in a special sauce.  Aubergine had already ordered a wine from the restaurant's fine selection.  The bottle, chilled, was already at the table when Bond sat down.

"I've made a few telephone calls," Aubergine said while they waited for their food, sipping the vintage merlot that Bond found quite pleasant despite his disparaging palate.  "MAX arrived in the city today.  My contact has learned that he has finalized his plans for tomorrow.  He'll take the Chunnel train into London.  The transaction will take place via an Internet connection.  My contact has also learned that the transaction will be encoded and protected, preventing us from stopping the information via another computer."

Bond took a quick sip of his wine.  "Meaning?"

"Meaning we'll have to go in on foot and stop the transaction," Veraut said.  Bond turned and looked at the girl.  Her words came with a tone of intelligence and erudition, proving to Bond that the girl was quite gifted indeed.

Bond noted that the woman had changed clothes since the last time he had seen her.  She now wore a plain black silk evening gown, with spaghetti straps covering the shoulders and a long slit running halfway up her thigh.  The dress was simple and elegant, accented by a string of diamonds around her neck that attracted attention to her cleavage.  Her hair, still looking just as silky-smooth as before, now hung down, barely touching her shoulders.  Her delicate wrist was still adorned with the same silver bracelet she had worn before.

"Have we a plan for that scenario?" Bond asked.

Aubergine nodded.  "That was the plan all along, _m'sieur_," the Frenchman replied.  "We'll be able to electronically link into MAX's server and follow his transaction.  We wont' be able to stop it online, but we'll be able to find him and stop him."

Bond nodded.  "Excellent."

Aubergine smiled.  "Yes, very much so.  It won't be easy, though, _m'sieur_ Bond, I assure you of that.  MAX has covered his tracks.  He chose the EuroTunnel and made his decision carefully.  Once the train enters the tunnel, the online connection will be broken.  This will erase any record of the transaction, preventing authorities from tracking it after the fact.  We, however, know that they will be making the deal on the train and won't have to investigate afterwards.  We'll be right there when he does so."

Bond moved on to another topic.  "What equipment will be necessary?"

"A few of my other contacts have already begun to gather the necessary materials.  A detailed plan of the train has been stolen and analyzed by my best men.  The security at the station won't be hard to bypass.  I have a few contacts in the station as well.  Nothing will go wrong."

Bond almost choked on his wine.  _Necessary materials?  Stolen train plans?  Bypassing security?_  This all sounded like too much for Bond.  Teaming with illicit criminals on a mission to stop a dangerous information broker with a list of SIS agents in Europe.  The secret agent slowly relaxed in his seat.

_Am I in too deep?_  The entire impact of the situation had finally overcome Bond.  He needed to rest, to think this over once more.  Had he acted on impulse?  _No_, Bond corrected himself.  He had no choice.  He trusted this man, and there was no alternative.  If he turned to M, the woman would be powerless.  She had gone against the wishes of the Minister of Defense and sent Bond on a mission to make contact with a feared international terrorist.  She would not be able to supply a team to counterattack the real MAX.  She would be thoroughly reprimanded by the Minister, and Bond would be evaluated and placed on sabbatical for some time.  _No, Bond thought once more.  __I can't do that.  If Bond wanted the job done, he would have to team with this man to do it._

"I'm glad to hear that you've covered your tracks, so to speak," Bond said.  "I assume you've established a full plan to counteract MAX's plan?"

Aubergine nodded.  "Quite a detailed one, in fact.  I'll give the full briefing tomorrow morning, but in the meantime you can study up on the background information.  _M'amoiselle Veraut has much of that data with her now.  She'll share some of it with you this evening, perhaps after dinner.  I'm sure you two will get along quite well."  Bond looked over at the girl, who was quietly sipping her wine, and received a flirtatious smile.  Her eyes seemed to sparkle with coyness._

The secret agent cleared his throat, a smirk appearing on his face as he looked back over at Aubergine.  "Yes, I think I would enjoy that very much," he replied, looking out the corner of his eye at the girl, who still looked as beautiful as she had the first time he had seen her.

"Good, good," Aubergine replied.

Just then, the food arrived, and the group spoke only of current events and the recent weather as they ate, content to leave business behind them.  Nevertheless, Bond knew what was in store for the next day.  He needed to be prepared, both mentally and physically.  He sipped the wine and watched Aubergine.  Twenty-four hours beforehand, Bond had been a skeptic, thinking that this man would be nothing more than a traitorous criminal with no information to offer SIS.  Now, he was sitting here preparing to take down one of the world's most intelligent terrorist masterminds.

Content and full, Bond excused himself to his room.  Aubergine encouraged the girl to go with him, and _mademoiselle Charlize Veraut excused herself from the table and gladly accepted Bond's arm.  The two headed to the elevator and then to their rooms._

●          ●          ●

Sitting in his posh hotel room, relaxing in one of the plush chairs and drinking straight Smirnoff vodka, James Bond tried to forget the events of the day.  A small glass table sat beside his chair, upon which rested a longneck Smirnoff bottle, a small shot glass, and his Walther PPK, silenced now.  A single red rose in a glass vase sat there too, an atmospheric decoration giving a peaceful ambiance to the room.

The secret agent rested his head in his hand as his elbow balanced on the arm of the chair.  He could not escape the thought that MAX's assassins were following him.  The slightest noise in the hallway sent his nerves jumping, and his hand scrambling for his PPK.  He had placed the weapon on his table just in case.

His mind slowly rejected the thoughts of MAX's Eternals and moved on to happier reflections.  The secret agent thought of Charlize.  The girl had the whole package; intelligence, beauty, grace, and a wit that impressive even James Bond's stoic sense of humor.  She had promised to visit his room when she had finished preparing the background information on the MAX operation.  But he wasn't looking forward to her return simply for the reports she would bring with her.  Bond continued to think of her perfect body, her striking green eyes, her attractive sense of style.  He continued to remind himself, though, that she was the enemy, and he wasn't going sleep with the enemy just for the sheer thrill of it.  In his line of work, it was sometimes conceivable to sleep with the enemy for information; in fact, Bond had done it many times.  But there were times for that action and times where that action wasn't necessary.

This instance was not one of those times.

A knock at the door alerted Bond's senses, sending his hand onto the PPK.  Gripping the weapon, he watched the door.  "Come in," Bond said sullenly.  The door slowly opened, and Charlize peeked inside.

"_M'sieur_," she asked.  Bond released the weapon, realizing who it was.

"Come in," Bond replied, slowly standing.  Only then did he realize how badly dressed he was.  His tie was gone; his shirt was unbuttoned halfway down; his shirt cuffs were unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows.

Charlize didn't seem to care.  She stepped into the room, holding an armful of files and folders.  She looked even more beautiful than she had before.  She wore the same black dress, but Bond had never noticed just how incredibly beautiful she looked in it.

She sat the files down on the bed.  "I just went through these and marked the important things," she said.  "Go ahead and take a look."  She turned to leave, but Bond stopped her.  Something inside seemed to be pulling him to keep her in the room.

"Wait a minute," he said.  "Stay here.  I might have a few questions."  The girl shrugged, walking across the room and looking out the large window onto the street below.

Bond sat on the bed, opening the top file and attempting to read it.  He couldn't stop looking at Charlize.  Her beautiful figure, framed in the window, looked more desirable than it ever had before.

"How long have you worked for Aubergine?" Bond asked.

She turned to him, smiling seductively.  "A few years," she replied.

Bond could not stop looking at her.  She was so beautiful.

Suddenly, the girl drew the window curtains and turned to Bond.  A flame of passion was visible in her eyes.  She moved slowly towards Bond, who remained silent.

"Charlize?" he asked suddenly as the girl wrapped her arms around Bond.

The files fell from the bed, out of the way.  She said nothing, pressing her finger against the secret agent's lips.  Tearing away the last few buttons of Bond's shirt, Charlize pushed Bond back onto the bed.  She straddled his body, her hands running against the rugged features of his face.  Bond did not argue, instead allowing the beautiful woman to get the better of him.  His inhibitions gone, he allowed the girl to lean forward and kiss him passionately.

Bond ran his hand up the girl's silky-smooth thigh, his hand pushing up her dress as he did.  She kicked off her heels, her body arching with passion as his hand ran further up her leg.  Mid-thigh, her hand reached down and met his, both hands pushing the skirt further to reveal a lacy black garter.  The girl pushed Bond's hand away, and leaned up from the man below her.

From the secret holster on the inside of her thigh, Charlize Veraut pulled a silver Heckler & Koch P7K3 and leveled it at Bond's face.

Backing off the bed, she never took her eyes off the stunned secret agent.  "I'm sorry about this, James," she said.  "I didn't want it to come to this, but Aubergine has people following us too."

_What?_ Bond thought.

"I don't work for Pierre Aubergine," she admitted.  "I'm DGSE, James.  I've been working undercover in Aubergine's organization for the past eight years.  We've been curious about his connections to MAX for some time now.  I was the DGSE's only link between Aubergine and the authorities.  I'm sorry for the deception, but it was necessary for your protection.  Your boss didn't want us interfering with this, understandably so.  But once Aubergine brought me to meet you, I knew I didn't have a choice.  My organization established a long time ago that Aubergine was indeed not MAX, but my boss thought it would be better to leave me undercover to prevent situations like this.  Your Minister refused to listen to my own boss and sent you kill Aubergine anyway."

Bond shook his head.  The Minister had sent Bond into this mission as blind as a bat.  "And Aubergine doesn't know?" Bond asked.

"No," she replied.  "Absolutely not."

James Bond stared up at the girl who still pointed her gun at him.  Just hours before, Bond had considered the girl an enemy—an innocent girl in the grand scheme of this chaos.  Now she was an agent, on the same level as Bond, who had been following this case for months.  Everything had changed.  Just the mere fact that she was holding Bond hostage had put the girl in a whole new light.

"Is that really necessary?" he asked, motioning towards the weapon.

She loosened her grip.  "I suppose not," she replied, smiling.  "Just keeping you on your toes.  I like a man who isn't afraid of a real woman."  She turned and placed the weapon on the dresser top.

She moved closer to Bond, who had moved to the edge of the bed.  "And what kind of a man is that?" he asked.

She leaned in, allowing Bond to wrap his arms around her waist.  "A man like you," she said, once again pushing the secret agent onto the bed.  She kissed him passionately.

Charlize never returned to her room that night.

●          ●          ●

The next morning, Aubergine was waiting in the hotel's main foyer.  Bond and Charlize, dressed and ready for the day, came down around nine o'clock.

"_Bonjour_,_ m'sieur_ Bond _et m'amoiselle_ Veraut," the Frenchman said.  He was smoking a cigar.  He wore a handsome blue jacket and pair of slacks over a white Oxford shirt and gray tie.  He looked cheery and awake despite the impending adventure the trio was about to undertake.

"_Bonjour_, _m'sieur_ Aubergine," Bond said.  His arm was wrapped around the waist of the girl who stood beside him, now dressed in a pair of black flare slacks and a dark blue blouse. Charlize's hair was tied behind her head in the same bun it had been tied in the day before.  The two had already shared a breakfast in Bond's room, before the two had showered and prepared for the day.  Bond now wore a tan jacket and matching slacks, with a light blue Oxford and no tie.  His shoes were brown leather, a pair he had picked up from his tailor on Saville Row.

"I trust you slept well?" Aubergine asked.

The two looked at each other.  "Very well," Bond replied with a grin.

"Well, then," he said, "we had better get going.  We have a long day ahead of us.  My limo is waiting outside.  Let's go."

Bond and Charlize followed Aubergine out of the hotel.  Bond knew the girl was armed with the same weapon she had been carrying last night.  Bond too was armed.  He wondered if Aubergine was carrying a weapon.

They climbed into the car and took a long ride.  Aubergine asked if the two had looked over some of the background work, and they both lied, saying that they had.  Aubergine nodded happily, then moved on to other topics.  They talked briefly as the limo weaved in and out of the crowded Parisian streets.

The car ended up pulling up to a dingy warehouse by the Seine River.  Climbing from the car, Bond noticed that the entire dock area had been disused for some time.  Rust and mold covered the metal warehouses.  Old boat parts were scattered around the warehouses; boxes, crates, and oil drums, some broken and rusted apart, were also strewn across the area.  No boats were docked in the wharf, and judging by the overall raggedy look of the place, Bond guessed that no boats had been there in years.

"Where are we?" Bond asked.  He looked at Charlize, whose cool eyes betrayed no clues about their surroundings.  He wondered if she knew where they were.

"You will see," Aubergine said, climbing from the car.  The limo driver had already stepped out and was at the large loading doors of the warehouse, opening the padlock and unwrapping the chain from the lock.  When that was done, he pulled the doors open, just enough so that they could slide in, then close them up again.

Bond found himself in a cavernous, damp room.  The dark surroundings were hard to see, and Bond had trouble focusing on what was around him.  Charlize stood nearby.

"Welcome!" Aubergine exclaimed.  He must have been standing near a light switch, because as soon as he spoke the lights of the warehouse flashed on, revealing a room packed roof-high with crates and boxes in aisles that stretched across the room.  Paths lead to a rear room, though Bond saw nobody there.

Aubergine walked over to Bond and Charlize.  "I found these warehouses years ago, _m'sieur_ Bond," the Frenchman explained.  "They had been disused for some time, and I found no reason to clean them up.  In fact, I found that their derelict look kept unwanted interest from them, and I went as far as to ruin them more.  They've served my organization well, as bases for meetings and stockpiling supplies."  Bond looked around, wondering what 'supplies' were in the crates and boxes.  _Weapons?  Explosives?_  The list seemed nearly infinite.

Suddenly, from around a corner, several men stepped out towards Bond, Charlize, and Aubergine.  They were unkempt, with oil and grease splattered across their various forms of coveralls.  The man who seemed to be the leader, a tall man with black hair and a worker's figure, stood in front of all the rest, wearing a wife beater T-shirt and a pair of old khaki slacks.  A red bandanna was tied around his head.

"Frommer!" Aubergine exclaimed as the men turned the corner.  The Frenchman stepped over to the leader, the one he had called Frommer, and gripped his hand.  The two greeted each other in French before Aubergine turned back to Bond and Charlize.

"_M'sieur_ Bond, may I introduce you to Jean-Luc Frommer, a close associate of mine."  Aubergine stepped out of the way as Bond and Frommer shook hands.  Bond noticed that the man smelt of lubricant and gunpowder.

"_M'sieur_ Frommer has been preparing the equipment for our operation this afternoon," Aubergine explained to Bond.  He then turned to the other Frenchman.  "I assume you have something to show us?"

Frommer nodded, his mouth twisting into a sadistic grin.  "_Oui_.  Follow me," he said with a thick accent.

Bond and Charlize followed Aubergine, Frommer, and the rest of the crew to the back room Bond had noticed before.  When the lights flickered on, Bond was amazed at what he saw.  The room was like a miniature armory inside the warehouse.  Each wall was covered by a glass display case housing the latest in military weaponry and technology.  The entire left wall was dedicated to submachine guns and rifles, with spaces only for workbenches and two windows looking out into the rest of the warehouse.  The right wall was technology, and all the latest stuff—flak jackets, frag and smoke grenades, night-vision goggles, EMP bombs, tasers, plastic explosives.  It was as if Aubergine had financed his own personal army.  The wall directly across from Bond was pistols, all the kinds the secret agent could imagine.  Behind him, a small case was set aside for special equipment, like grenade launchers and sniper's rifles.  In the center of the room sat a long workbench, where several K&H MP5 machine guns were being greased up.  A rack at the end of the bench held several M16 rifles ready for use.

"What do you think?" Aubergine asked Bond as the secret agent looked around at the impressive stockpiling.  "Frommer has outdone himself, _non_?"  Aubergine elbowed the Frenchman standing beside him, smiling at the small army of weaponry he had amassed.

"Quite impressive," Bond said.  "What are we using today?"

Frommer took over for Aubergine.  His accent was much thicker than the other Frenchman's—it was more southern French than the Parisian that Aubergine spoke.  His voice was raspy and his eyes moved slowly, inspecting his particular target with a keen insight and slow precision.

"MP5's, mainly," Frommer began.  "I will have a few men with Uzis near the exits.  Nothing big, I'm afraid, for safety reasons.  The train station may not have the same tight security that the big airports have, but even they can detect something like an M16."

Bond nodded, moving towards the pistol case.  "And small-caliber?"

"Berettas," Frommer said.  "I use a Luger when I can, but my men tend to prefer the lower-caliber Berettas."

Bond nodded.  He disliked the American weapon.  "I trust you won't be disappointed if I choose to use my own weapon."

Frommer raised an eyebrow, scanning Bond over.  "Not at all," he lied.

Bond nodded.  "Well then, let's get to work.  Aubergine, what else do you have for us?"

The Frenchman smiled.  "Agent Double-Oh Seven, always ready for the next adventure."  He chuckled.  "The train leaves from the Gare Saint Lazare at one-thirty.  We've purchased six tickets; one for you, myself, _m'amoiselle_ Veraut, Frommer, and two of his men.  We'll establish initial visual contact with MAX and his agents and try to subdue them one at a time.  I'll have to stay out of sight.  I'm afraid MAX will recognize me.  I would also recommend that you stay as far away as possible, _m'sieur_ Bond.  He knows who you are, and even though he won't be looking for you, he'll be suspicious if he spots you.

"One of Frommer's men is a computer expert, and he'll be able to trace the connection between the two computers.  One will be MAX's, the other will belong to his buyer.  If we can establish a connection between the two computers, Frommer seems to think he's whipped something up that will spike both connections and let us nab the buyer."

"Spike them?" Charlize asked.

"_Oui_," Frommer spoke up.  "A spike is a computer virus that tracks the person, or persons, using a certain connection.  It will jam their modem so that they can't hang up.  We'll be able to trace them even with their blocks up.  Quite simple."

"And we know this will work?" Bond asked.

Frommer nodded.  "Never doubt me, _m'sieur_ Bond."

Bond turned to Aubergine, ignoring Frommer.  "Anything else?"

"That's all for now, _m'sieur_," Aubergine said.  "Frommer, get everything ready.  We'll be waiting while you prepare it all."

Bond and Charlize walked out of the room and stopped by the boxes, out of earshot of Aubergine and his men.  "James," Charlize said.  "What are we going to do?"

"About what?" Bond asked.

"You're just going to go with this man?  Take sides with a criminal?"

Bond touched Charlize on her cheek.  "Charlize, I have no choice.  The only way we can get rid of MAX is to trust Aubergine.  He knows the man, and he knows his ways.  I have nowhere else to turn."

"But my agency—"

"Your agency will contact my agency as soon as they find out I'm involved.  This way, we have access to the same weaponry, the same technology, and we'll get the same results.  I'll make sure Aubergine doesn't get away with anything else."

There was seriousness in his words.  Charlize found it hard to believe that James Bond actually trusted a known criminal, regardless of his connections.  Then again, she knew that Bond was restricted in this mission.  He had no other choice.  He had to either side with Aubergine or let MAX go.  Either way, he was going to lose something.

"I understand," she said, kissing him.

"You trust him, don't you?" Bond said.

She nodded slowly.

"Then lets do this."

●          ●          ●

The van was waiting outside the warehouse.  The two warehouse doors had been pulled wide open and the vehicle was being loaded with boxes.

James Bond sat in the rear part of the van, loading a clip into his Walther PPK.  Beside him, Charlize was loading a clip into the Beretta she had been given by Aubergine's man Frommer.  Clearly, the Frenchman didn't know about the girl's other hidden 'asset.'

Aubergine sat across from Bond, now without his tie or jacket, wearing a heavy black wool coat.  The man looked sullen and primed, a direct contrast to his cheery attitude earlier this morning.  He worked loading a MP5 submachine gun.  Frommer and his two men had changed from their work clothes into handsome designer shirts and slacks.  Like Aubergine, they wore heavy black wool coats.  "Ready, _m'sieur_ Bond?" Frommer asked as the final box was loaded into the van.

"Always," he replied.

Frommer climbed into the van and the doors were thrown shut.  The two other men climbed into the van's front two seats and took off.

Bond pulled open one of the boxes, revealing a case full of flak jackets.  He handed one to Charlize, Aubergine, and Frommer.  They each pulled one on underneath their clothes.  Charlize hid hers underneath a long tan overcoat.

The next box contained MP5 submachine guns.  Frommer had stashed several pieces of luggage in the back of the van.

"These are completely x-ray proof," Frommer said of the suitcases as he loaded two MP5s into the first piece of luggage and threw some clothing in with them.  "Nobody at security will be able to spot them."

Bond nodded.  Frommer, Aubergine, and the two other men would use the machine weapons.  Bond and Charlize would stick to their pistols.  Bond knew that the two guards in the front were also carrying Uzis with them; he didn't know how they would sneak those onto the train.

The van rolled up to the front of the Gare Saint Lazare.  It was one o'clock, and the cold French weather was already nipping at those on the streets.  A chill was in the air as Bond threw open the van door and climbed out, carrying one of the suitcases and lending a hand to Charlize as she too climbed from the vehicle.

Aubergine and Frommer followed behind Bond and Charlize as they headed into the building.  The train station at Gare Saint Lazare was amazing.  Its impressive façade dominated the skyline.  A large statue stood sentry at the front entrance.  Inside, hundreds of tourists and vacationers milled about the main room, buying tickets and studying the large arrival and departure display board on the far wall.

The group headed for their train.  Their tickets would not be checked until they were on the train.  Aubergine and Frommer wanted to arrive early so that they would be able to discreetly set up their computer system.  Bond and Charlize hurried onboard, finding their seats.  The six seats were together, facing one another, with a table separating them.  _What luck_, Bond thought, then wondering if Aubergine had planned it that way.

The secret agent allowed everyone else to get situated while he loaded the bags into the overhead compartments.  If there had been security, he hadn't noticed.  There had probably been scanners in a doorway on their way to the platform.

One of Aubergine's men had carried a briefcase with him and had now pulled a laptop computer from that case.  A cellular telephone with an inconspicuous chord attaching it to the laptop sat nearby.  Bond wondered what connection the two devices had, and he thought of Q Branch back in London.

"He's scanning the local systems for a link," Charlize leaned over to Bond, whispering in his ear.  "The program he's using will allow him to locate MAX's computer based on the system that MAX's computer is using.  Once we have that established, we'll move out to the other areas of the train looking for him.  Stick by me, James."  Bond looked at her pleading eyes.

He nodded.  "Of course."             

The computer whirred and buzzed as it checked the various links.  Bond felt the weight of his PPK in his shoulder holster.  How would they take out MAX?  Just put a gun to his head and arrest him?  Certainly not.  They didn't have the authority for that.  But they also couldn't just shoot him to death, not in the middle of this train with all these people around.  Bond had his license to kill, but a location this public was not a good place to show that off.

The secret agent continued to listen.  He looked at his watch.  One twenty-five.  The train would be leaving in five minutes.  The whistle blew, signaling the impending departure.  Outside, passengers scrambled onboard.

Aubergine had been looking out the window, but suddenly turned away.  "Don't look," he said to Bond, whom he was sitting across from.  "MAX is out there.  Climbing aboard now.  Three men are with him.  They all are wearing black jackets.  MAX has the blonde hair."  Aubergine slowly turned his head back.  "Look now."

Bond turned and saw the man climbing onto the train.  _Is the contact already on board?_ he wondered.  _Is he sitting nearby?  _Bond checked the seats in close relation to their own.  All those seats were occupied.  But by whom?

MAX and his agents climbed on one of the other train cars and did not pass Bond at his seat.  Just the thought that he was so close to the crime lord made Bond want to get up and find him now.  The case, when he had first received it, had not been personal.  Now, it was.  After the incident at the café, after learning he had been manipulated by MAX, Bond wanted revenge.

The final whistle sounded, and Bond watched as the train began to move away.  It sped from the station and into the countryside in a matter of minutes.  Bond became more anxious as the train continued.  He looked at the computer and the man running it.  _What is taking so long?_ he wondered.

"Got it!" the computer man whispered just then.  "Locking onto target now."

Bond smiled.  _It won't be long now._

Charlize reached over and took Bond's hand, as if to say they were about to get what they had been looking for.

"Look," Frommer said, reaching inside his jacket and producing a folded envelope.  He laid it on the table and delicately opened it, pulling out a small object no larger than a dime.

"This is a portable radio transmitter," he said in a low tone.  "Fits right into your ear.  Nearly invisible.  Talk regularly and we will be able to hear you."  He handed one out to everybody, and they placed it in their ears.  "Let's split up.  _M'sieur_ Bond, _m'amoiselle_ Veraut—you two go together.  I'll go with _m'sieur_ Aubergine."  Frommer turned to his other man.  "You watch the door," he ordered.  "Let's move.  Keep your eyes open and let us know what you see.  My man at the computer will let us know what goes on between MAX and his buyer."

With that, they scattered.  Bond and Charlize went out the door at the rear of the train, heading into the next car.  Aubergine and Frommer went the other way.

"I don't see him," Charlize whispered to Bond.

He shook his head.  "Me either."

They scanned the group circumspectly, looking for a computer, or any sign of the Eternals that had come aboard the train with MAX.  Certainly they would be guarding exits around MAX, and possibly the buyer as well.

"I've got a location," came a voice from the transmitter in Bond's ear.  The voice was the man from the computer.  "He's in the fourth car from the front."

Next, Frommer's voice: "We're coming, Bond."

Bond and Charlize were already on the third car, so they moved ahead, as energized as ever.  Now, they would have to be more careful.  Eternals would be up ahead.

Bond pushed open the door to the next car.  Suddenly, a man in a black trench coat stepped in his way.

"What are you doing here?" he asked quietly but still with menace.  He had dark hair and an imposing face.  He wore dark sunglasses that prevented Bond from seeing the man's eyes.

"Looking for the lav, chap," Bond said, lying.  The man eyed Bond over once, and then moved out of the way.  None of the passengers sitting nearby seemed to notice this.  Nobody noticed anything, Bond thought.  They were all either looking at a computer, or reading a book, or doing some other work.  Nobody was paying attention.

Bond moved on through the train.  Charlize leaned in close.  "Was that—?"

Bond nodded.  "I think so."

They continued down the long row of seats.  Bond looked at the people, not directly, but subtly.  He could almost feel the gaze of the Eternal at the door following him.

Suddenly, the computer man's voice was back in the earpiece.  "Uh, I've got a problem here," he said.  "The connection just died."

"What?" Bond replied.

"It's like I said—the connection's gone.  Just shut off."

Bond narrowed his eyes.

"Could he be done already?" came Frommer's voice from the transmitter.

"No," Bond responded.  "No he couldn't."  Bond looked up at the people around him.  "He knows.  He knows we're here.  Get your computer off now.  Get offline.  He knows that we're here and he's tracking us."

Suddenly, from a set of seats a few rows ahead, Bond watched as two men in black trench coats and a man in a sharp designer suit stood and walked towards the rear of the car.

"MAX!" Bond turned and said to Charlize.  He was after them in an instant, rushing towards the men.  Charlize spun, seeing the Eternal from the doorway moving quickly towards her.  She reached out, hitting him in the face.  He doubled over, and she brought her boot up into his face.  He fell to the ground.

By now, the people in the train car had turned to see the commotion.  Bond threw open the door that separated the two cars, and found himself in the service car, where a few stewardesses had stopped their work.  But looked at them, then saw what they had stopped for.  In the opposite doorway, weapons drawn, stood the two Eternals that had run from the car with MAX.

Everything seemed to go in slow motion after that.  Bond reached into his jacket, pulling out his Walther, but he was two slow.  Gunshots erupted from the doorway across from him.

But the shots had not come from the Eternals.  Instead, they had come from _behind_ the Eternals.  The two men collapsed in the doorway, their body riddled with bullets from someone's gun.  

Not Bond's.

MAX's.  

MAX had rushed through the service car, into the car behind it.  Bond turned to the stewardesses.  "Where does that go?" he asked.

They cowered, looking frightened, but one spoke up.  "That's the baggage car, sir," one of the girls said.

Bond turned and rushed off without a thank-you.  There was no time for that now.  MAX had known that they were coming on the train.  He had just shot dead two of his Eternals.  He was desperate to get away.  He had lied about the transaction.  Did he have a real list of agents?  Bond would bet that he did, but the secret agent wasn't about to risk it.  Bond, weapon drawn, rushed into the baggage car after the terrorist.

Charlize heard the gunshots just as Aubergine and Frommer were coming into the fourth car.  She shot the two Frenchmen a look, then ran into the service car after Bond, drawing her weapon.  Two of the men in the black jackets had been gunned down.  By Bond?  No, she saw.  He said something to the stewardesses in the corner and then rushed into the next car.  She yelled his name and ran after him.

The baggage car was dark, except for the thin slits of light that filtered through the blinds on the windows.  High metal racks of passenger bags filled the room.  Bond could hear the train rushing by its surroundings as he stood in the silent room, his back pressed up against one of the racks.  MAX was in this room, armed, and waiting.  Bond wanted this man.

"Drop your weapon!" he shouted.  "Put yours hands above your head!"

No response.

"James!" Charlize shouted from the doorway.  _Not now!_ he thought, not responding to her call.  These blasted women always got in the way.  Couldn't she just stay away from him now?  He had thought she was a smart girl.  Why was she coming in here, yelling his name?

More gunfire erupted, three quick bursts.  Charlize screamed as the bullets whizzed near her, slamming into luggage on one of the nearby racks.  She fired two blind shots, not seeing the location of her attacker.

"Drop your weapon now!" Bond shouted, spinning from his place.

No sign of MAX.

"Come out now with your hands up!" Bond shouted.

No response.

Aubergine and Frommer arrived in the doorway, scanning for Bond or MAX.  No sign of either of them.  Aubergine turned to his left, then his right.  Then left again.

Another gunshot rang out.  Aubergine ducked to his right.  Frommer was too late.  The shot caught him square in the chest.  He fell to the ground, blood pouring from the wound.  The Frenchman kneeled down beside his friend, but he was gone already.  Aubergine whispered a prayer as he crouched down, moving slowly through the luggage racks.

Bond took a deep breath.  His back was pressed against another rack now, closer to the rear of the baggage car.  He knew the only other way out of the car was the rear entrance, which lead into the caboose.  A member of train personnel would be there, but MAX had killed already and Bond was sure he would kill again.  Plus, the secret agent was sure that the terrorist had something even more sinister up his sleeve.  Bond would not give up until he had caught MAX.

Bond counted to three, then spun out again with his weapon ready.  No sign of MAX.  _Where is he?_

Two shots rang out, near Bond's head.  He spun back to his original spot, catching his breath.  The shots had been unexpected.  He had seen no shooter.  In fact, he had heard nothing more from Charlize either.  Where was the girl?

Silence echoed through the car.  "Charlize?" Bond said.  "Charlize?"

James Bond stepped around the luggage rack and heard a hammer click behind him.  He spun immediately, gun up.  But there was no use.

In front of him stood MAX, dressed in the same handsome designer suit he had been wearing before.  The man wore a pair of sunglasses and smiled wickedly at the secret agent.  In one arm MAX held Charlize, his hand over her mouth.  In the other hand he held his pistol.  The barrel of the gun pressed ever-so-slightly into Charlize's temple.

"Lower your gun, _m'sieur_ Bond," MAX said in a normal tone.  He did not shout.  He was totally cool and collected.  Bond did not waver.

"_M'sieur_ Bond, I am a patient man," MAX continued, "but I will only ask one more time.  _Put your gun down_."  His voice was firm, but still he did not shout.  "Or I will be forced to take care of _m'amoiselle_ Veraut."

_How does he know her name?_ Bond wondered.  Still, he did not lower his weapon.

Aubergine shouted behind him.  Bond did not turn.  The Frenchman slid alongside Bond, pistol drawn.  Bond wondered about Frommer, but said nothing.  He was concentrating on MAX.  The girl was expendable, but Bond wanted the list.

"Ah, _m'sieur _Aubergine, how good of you to join us."  MAX stared at the Frenchman.  Bond caught the terrorist's glare only too late.  He moved the weapon away from Charlize's head and pointed it at Aubergine.  Bond tried to yell, but was too late.  A quick flash, an echoing gunshot.  Aubergine flew back to the ground and landed with a sickening _wump_.

Bond kept his eyes on MAX.  He flared his nostrils as his hatred for the man grew even greater.  His brow was lined with sweat, but he was not concentrating on it.

"This is your last chance, Bond," MAX said.  Behind the man, Bond could see the open door to the caboose car.  Bond guessed that it would only take a few seconds for the man to escape into the doorway.  Bond could lose precious time there.  He had to act quickly.

Bond's finger tightened on the trigger.  MAX moved the weapon away from the girl's once more.  Before either could fire, another gunshot rang out.

The bullet grazed MAX's left shoulder, the one not handling his weapon.  He shouted in pain, tossing Charlize to the ground.  Bond spun to see Aubergine balancing on his elbows, weapon aimed up at MAX.  "I'll see you in Hell," he sneered at the terrorist.

MAX ran then, towards the door.  Bond sprang into action.  Two shots from the Walther went wide.  One shot from MAX's gun caused Bond to roll back against one of the luggage racks for support.  Another shot was nowhere near Bond.  Then another wide shot.  Someone screamed.

Bond realized then for whom those two shots had been intended.  Charlize's limp body lay spread-eagle on the floor.  A small trickle of blood drained from the side of her mouth.  In an instant, Bond knew she was gone.

"No!" he shouted as MAX turned the corner into the caboose car.

"Go!" Aubergine shouted, pulling himself up.  "Go, Bond!  Catch him."

Bond turned and looked at Aubergine, then at Charlize.

"She was one of his!" Aubergine shouted in reply.  "She was a double agent!  Get him!  He has the list!"

Bond was shocked by Aubergine's comment.  _A double agent?  Charlize?_  But… she was DGSE!  Or was she?  Bond didn't know.  But he knew someone that would.

MAX.

The secret agent ran to the caboose car doorway.  It was sliding closed on its hydraulic hinge, and Bond barely had time to slid through before it sealed shut.  As it did, Bond turned and found himself in a short hallway that lead to another doorway: the caboose doorway.  The hall was dark, but up ahead he could see light.

Back pressed against the wall, Bond slid towards the caboose door, wondering what he would find inside.  His mind was racing—was Charlize a double agent?  Had he slept unknowingly with the enemy?  Even more important, did MAX indeed have a list of the SIS agents in Europe?  If so, what did he intend to do with it?  Bond needed the answers to these questions.  He would stop at nothing to get them.

"No!  Please don't!" came the shout from inside the caboose car.

Bond spun inside, gun ready.  MAX stood in the center of the car, gun trained.  The diminutive train attendant groveled on the ground, not wanting to die.

"Give up, MAX," Bond said.  "This is the end of the line."

The man slowly turned to face Bond.  "You just don't give up, do you _m'sieur_ Bond?"  He still wore the dark glasses that impeded Bond from seeing his true face.

Only then did Bond notice where they were.  Rushing through the mountains of northern France, the train was speeding along a metal support bridge high above the Scarpe River, in the river valley just south of Arras.  The view from the caboose car was incredible, but Bond had no time for that now.  MAX was standing less than five feet away from him.  Bond's focus had to be perfect.

"Give up!" Bond shouted.  "Throw down you gun _now_!"

Then the terrorist did a curious thing: he began to chuckle.

Bond's face twisted into a look of confusion.

"My dear _m'sieur_ Bond," the man chuckled, "I have nothing to fear from you.  In five minutes, this train will be gone and you will be alone in this car with nobody to help you."  The man smiled sadistically.  "This is the end of _your_ line, _m'sieur_ Bond."

As MAX talked, Bond spotted the lump on his back.  A parachute!  MAX was going to jump off the train!  But what had he meant by the train being 'gone'?

The reverberating explosion that ripped through the train in the next seconds sent Bond and MAX staggering backwards.  A bomb!  MAX had planted a bomb.  Suddenly, Bond's thoughts turned to those with him—Aubergine, Frommer.  Were they hurt?

_No_, Bond thought, forcing himself to concentrate on the moment.  He had to kill MAX.  He had to take him out now.  This had gone far enough.

Bond fired once, and MAX ducked out of the way just in time.  The bullet shattered the glass windshield of the caboose car.  A howling wind pulled everything towards it, just as if Bond had shot out a window in an airplane.  The train attendant, having nothing to grip, flew out the window into oblivion.  Bond caught one of the straps hanging from the roof of the train car, the kind normally used for support during braking.  MAX steadied himself against the panel at the front of the car.

"Where is the disk?" Bond shouted at MAX.

"In time," he said, "all things will be made clear."

_What?_ Bond thought.  Aubergine had said that exact phrase to him only days before.  What did MAX mean by it?

Bond didn't have time to ponder it.  The bullet that flew from the terrorist's weapon tore through the leather strap Bond clung to.  The secret agent fell to the floor, sliding towards MAX as he was pulled by the suction of the train window.  His foot collided with MAX's leg, causing the terrorist to cry out in pain.

MAX kicked Bond in the ribs.  The secret agent spun defensively on his side, hoping for protection against another such assault.  His PPK was still in his hand.  He spun quickly to fire on MAX.  But the terrorist was gone.

Bond pulled himself up with help from the panel.  MAX had moved to the other side of the room, near the door from the baggage car.  Another locked door, a service door, was MAX's only chance of escape from the now-burning train.  Bond wondered what damage the bomb had caused.  The train was still moving, so it hadn't interfered with the engine.

MAX steadied himself against the far wall as he shot open the lock of the service door.  More howling wind flew into the room as Bond pressed his body against the panel for support.  Slowly, with great effort, he lifted his weapon to fire on MAX.  It was his last chance.  The terrorist had already steadied himself in the doorway in preparation for the jump.

Bond fired, catching the terrorist in the shoulder.  He swung out of the doorway, pushing against the wall.  "Fool," he spat at the secret agent.  MAX reached for his weapon, which he had holstered.  He raised it and pulled the trigger.

Nothing.

He was out of bullets.

Bond smiled.  "Give up," he whispered.  "I have you now."

"Or so you think, _m'sieur_ Bond."  He snickered.  "Give my regards to M.  The old woman always was a bit cleverer than your Defense Minister.  Tell her she has my vote."  He smiled wickedly.  With that, he threw himself from the train.

Bond ran to the doorway.  The terrorist was flying off the bridge, towards the valley below, his limbs stuck out to form an 'X' shape with his body.  As MAX plummeted towards the ground, he pulled his chute.  Bond watched as the man slowly glided to the surface, taking the list with him.

Aubergine rushed into the room seconds after the terrorist jumped.  Covered in black dust, Bond guessed he had been caught in the explosion.

"_Mon ami_?" Aubergine asked, an expression of surprise and anticipation on his face.

Bond lowered his head.  "He jumped."

Aubergine lowered his head as well.

●          ●          ●

The train stopped at a small station in Arras.  The explosion had ripped a gaping hole in the baggage car.  Several racks of luggage had been lost.  There had been no casualties to report.  Bond and Aubergine both knew what had happened to Charlize.

Aubergine and Bond walked quickly off the train, followed by the two men Frommer had brought.  His body, too, had been lost when the baggage car exploded.  Aubergine had barely been able to escape the detonation.

Bond contacted headquarters from the train station.  Nobody on the train had seen Bond's weaponry, and nobody knew who he was.  He was told to wait at the station.  An escort would arrive in a half-hour.

Bond and Aubergine stood in one of the vestibules and waited.  The man's face was weary with fatigue and depression.  Bond, too, was dejected.  He had had every chance to take out MAX, but he had refused to take them.  Now, the man was gone, probably with the list.  Bond would never find him again.

"Well, _mon ami_," Aubergine said.  "This is where we part."

Bond nodded.  "Yes, I'm afraid it is."  He reached inside his jacket and produced an envelope.

"This is the key to a safe deposit box in Georgetown, on the Cayman Islands.  They have some of the most secure banks in the world there.  Inside the box you'll find a checkbook.  The account number should be 056392AW.  The line of credit will be fifty thousand euros, with the option of six other accounts across the world.  The money is yours, _m'sieur_.  A thank you from SIS.  Take it and leave.  Don't return to Paris.  MAX will be looking for you, this time with a vengeance.  Your organization will have to be shut up.  Agents within my organization will handle that.  Lay low for some time while the smoke clears.  I realize this will have been a great sacrifice for you.  But at least you are getting away with your life."

Aubergine did not smile, but seemed appreciative.  He knew this day would come and, now that it had, he accepted it with a solemn reception.  "_Merci_, _m'sieur_ Bond," he said, accepting the envelope.  "I have always thought that the Caymans would be a nice place for a vacation.  Now I have that opportunity."

A cab pulled up outside the vestibule.  "My ride," he said.  "Thank you, _m'sieur_ Bond."  Aubergine climbed into the car and, with a screeching of tires and a large puff of smoke from the exhaust pipe, was gone.

●          ●          ●

Bond's 'escort' arrived fifteen minutes late.  An entourage of SUVs and a single limousine pulled up to the front of the small train station.  M and the Minister of Defense Thomas Faulkland stepped from their car and made their way into the station.

James Bond sat upstairs in one of the station's offices, that of the station manager.  The fifteen-by-fifteen room was on the second floor of the train station, and contained nothing but a desk, a single metal filing cabinet, and a desk lamp.  The manager was a small portly man named Moore, who wore a cheap blue button-up and a pair of old khakis.  He sat behind the desk, drumming his fingers on the top.  The conductor was in the room as well, a slimmer, older man named Vichy.  Bond had explained the situation to the two men after Aubergine left; neither of them knew a thing about the Frenchman that had come aboard the train with Bond.  They had both been distrustful of Bond when he had first come to them, but now they were content that soon they would be repaid for all the damages.

M and Minister Faulkland were lead up to the office by one of aides.  Bond rose as his two superiors walked in.  

"Ma'am," he said, shaking M's hand.

"Bond," she replied.

He took the Minister's hand as well.  "Good to see you, Double-Oh Seven," the man said in his thick Cockney accent.  His handshake was cold and obligatory.

Both M and the Minister greeted the station manager, and the pleasantries were complete.  They stood to discuss the matter.

"We wanted to come down ourselves," M said.  "What happened?"

"Is he gone?" the Minister asked.

Bond nodded.  "Yes," the secret agent replied.  "He knew I was coming though," Bond lied.  He had crafted the story that he would report on.  Nobody would be the wiser.  "I think   we may have a mole in our analysis section."

"Preposterous," the Minister blew it off.

"Still, we may need to check into it."  M stood by her agent.

"Very well," the Minister conceded, with no intention of checking into it.  "We'll leave all that for later.  Just glad to see you back in one piece, old boy."  He slapped Bond on the back.

They walked from the office, Bond with M and the Minister staying behind to speak with the station manager.  A row of armed SIS security guards lined the front door.  M and Bond spoke in low tones as they moved slowly down the steps and out into the vehicles.

"What happened?" she asked.

"We'll talk about it later," Bond said, with every intention of giving his boss the entire story, leaving nothing out.  There were so many unanswered questions, questions Bond knew he would never find the answer to.  But there were some he thought M would be able to help with.  He wanted to know if Charlize had been DGSE.  He wanted to know if a copy of the European agents had been stolen.  He wanted to know so many different things.

Like MAX and Aubergine had said: _In time, all things will be made clear_.

●          ●          ●

Two weeks later, the boat that pulled up to the dock just below the Credit Dauphine bank in Georgetown, Cayman Islands, sputtered a few times before finally shutting off.  The captain, a short man of average build, had familiar salt-and-pepper hair, thick eyebrows, and a bushy mustache.  His clothes, however, were quite different.  He wore a short-sleeved Hawaiian-style button-up with a pack of Marlboros rolled into one sleeve; a pair of frayed khaki shorts; and a pair of straw sandals that looked quite worn.  A pair of tinted sunglasses rested on the peak of his nose.

He climbed from the boat and onto the dock.  Waiting for him was a handsome man with blonde hair.  Sunglasses prevented anyone from seeing his eyes too.  Wrapped in his arms was a beautiful girl named Charlize Veraut.

"_M'sieur_ Aubergine," the man with the blonde hair greeted his friend.  "Job well done."

Aubergine nodded.  He pulled an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to his boss.  "The key to the SIS safe deposit box inside," he said.  "Fifty thousand euros."

The man with the blonde hair nodded.  "Excellent."

Aubergine turned to the girl.  "A miraculous recovery."

She smiled.  "Indeed."

The man with the blonde hair turned to Aubergine.  "MAX is dead forever," he said.  "Bond will think I am still at large, and with that list of agents."  There was no real list of agents, and both men knew it.  "We will lay low for some time.  They will take out your organization and all your bases.  Wait for a while.  After that is done, eliminate Bond.  He must not stay alive."

Aubergine shook his head in bold defiance.  "No," he said, speaking in a thick French accent.  "Bond suspects nothing.  He will do nothing further.  He bought into everything we told him.  Don't jeopardize us by killing him."

The man with the blonde hair narrowed his eyes, studying the Frenchman.  "Very well, Aubergine.  I suppose you deserve that.  Just make sure he doesn't interfere with the next phase of our operation."

Aubergine nodded.  "Yes, sir."

"I'll have the money deposited in our own account," Aubergine added.  "SIS will not be able to trace it that way."

"Very well."

Aubergine nodded once more, than said his farewell.  As he turned, the rolled-up cuff of his shirt revealed the blue flame tattoo on his bicep.

The mark of an Eternal.

The Eternal flame.

Pierre Aubergine waited until the man and the girl had walked away to start up the motor of his boat once more.  The aging piece of junk had belonged to the Frenchman for some time, ever since he first started working for the man with the blonde hair, the man once known as MAX.

As he maneuvered his boat out of the dock and into the water, he thought about the man in SIS, the one know as James Bond.  Bond had fallen for everything Aubergine had told him.  The Minister had been right all along.  Bond should have killed Aubergine when he had the chance.

As the Frenchman's boat passed one of the marker buoys in the water, the entire vessel erupted in a ball of flame.  The mushroom cloud of fire and metal that engulfed the boat and its captain flew high in the air and caused a terrible noise.  At the dock, the man with the blonde hair turned and watched as his most important asset burned alive.

Forty feet away, sitting at a small bar on the beach, James Bond lowered the binoculars and watched the fire with his own eyes.  The raging inferno was just as visible this far from the chaos.  He smiled to himself as he took a sip of his Americano.  Pierre Aubergine the Eternal got just what he was bargaining for.

Lifting the binoculars again, he watched the man with the blonde hair and Charlize Veraut turn and quickly walk away.  _Soon_, he thought.  _You'll get yours soon enough._

Sitting back, he remembered what Pierre Aubergine had once said.  'In time, all things will be made clear.'

_How true_, he thought.

_How true_.


End file.
